Buffed by elbows and rimmed with coffee, this desk is no place to find a poem. If I were a Lilliputian, I’d seek the orange walls of Iceland poppies opening to the sun or watch the wind design a mare’s tail sky. I’d ride barrel clouds or drift with the wings of a red-tailed hawk or spin inside a dust devil until I dropped, tired out of my mind and let the poem write itself.
blank sheet of paper
dumb as a rock