The urge to write, as poem.

 The Urge.

The reaching moment, that never arrives
Subversive, undercutting the desire
The aching stretch for the look
Of knowing, if only they heard
If only they could  hear
I try to tie them to the noise.
I can spin this spell, tell this tale,
if only I can hear them listen.

The noise of a silent voice
The wavering of sense
The squaring of time
Written backward. Of time
Long coming or gone yet already here.
The fixing of water into place
Already evaporating.

Sifting the air with open fingers
Hanging the letters whispered there.
The mind atomized by words,
bits and dashes,
impulses on the counter.
Never finished, always done,
always here, already gone.