Now sleepy, Now dead, now tired of life.

thinking I may just as well go quiet.  

but the poet wants to go on

to live into the dark riot,

to draw down into the poetry well tonight. 

Climb down the stones into that cool place.

down where the mossy liquid seeps,

down into that hole in the ground,

down through the clay into the creek,

drawing down into the poetry tonight.

Flinching as the bucket slaps the water's cheek,

the weight of the dark, wet, and dense wood,

where even now I can see my eyes

dashed against the surface of the sky,

already pulling over to scoop liquid to light

drawing from the poetry well tonight.

Climbing hand over hand, over fist, over foot,

my knee hitting damp and hard,

feeling the rubber cleats of my boot

slip soft on slime and stone

over the rocks into that hole in the yard,

down into the poetry well tonight.

And as my mind moves down,

face lifted into the oval of blue above

against the dark and dense

I can draw with a new and clear thirst

the quick bright hummingbirds on the lawn,

the warm sun on my jaw,

and the sound of a car toping the hill

just the other side of the fragrant hedge.

And I am thinking

I may just as well

seep into the poetry well tonight.