I envy poets who write in ink
with broad-nibbed pens
in large letters, like a jazz trumpeter
who lifts his horn to his lips
and blows notes he can never call back.
Ink's so audacious,
so tyrannical, so permanent
even crossed out,
a presence on the page,
a blot cluttering my mind
with words already rejected.
I'm comforted by my #2 pencil
with its forgiving pink eraser.
Maybe it's the faintness of lead,
whispering words down on paper,
the noiseless rubbing them out,
trying another way
until I find a resonance
of thought and sound
of that flash of vision I had.
It's like muttering under my breath,
as I stumble through thickets of thought,
and when finally ready,
clearing my throat
to say it aloud.
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