Make way for the pen,
Should it need be dipped. Should it need
A white haven to lay its head.

Make way, and give room,
For the ink-knife to cut its gem.
Give time to it, give patience,
Forgive and forget.

Sometimes things need be said.
What living thing can exist without air?
A space in which it may rest, be at peace,
Have a grave,
For a day.

For something to begin
It must start. Kiss and kill your darlings down,
Allow insomnia to seize you
For a night.
Drink your cup empty.

May a muse place palm upon you.
May a rose blossom
From your desk.

I haven’t yet been able
To find you.
I think, I sense, I feel,

You must be dead.

Or lost inside these unholy ghosts.