One night tinged with death
and I became her,
the poet from the TV,
the girl on the floor of her room.
And the words
came around my head,
like a satellite,
like a satellite,
And that is how it feels,
like a message from space,
like downloads from a star,
to write, to write.
It feels like night,
like flight.
Dizzy, buzzing,
productive and right.
It's no wonder she
stayed inside;
there's no predicting
when a storm will strike.
And when it comes you need
quiet, need a pen,
any one,
sure, a marker,
that's alright.
You need patience
not to write
new words
before the old ones are rhymed,
and just one moment of time—
The words come around my head,
like a satellite,
like a satellite,
and I have to catch them as they go by,
before they escape again to the sky,
like the comet in the play,
one rhapsodic moment on the stage,
each time an epiphany,
each time altering
the way I see.
The words come around my head
like an satellite,
like a satellite,
and I, each time, gaze joyfully.
