Inspiration

There’s a poem I’m certain to write. This
is not that poem. This isn’t even about
the same thing as the poem I’m waiting for.
Yes, it’s about you. This shouldn’t surprise
you by now. This poem is not about you.

The poem I’m waiting for is eating words
so it can’t be written. It’s a yellow vat
of hot aluminum so thin it runs through
the seams in the casts. It melts the casts.
When the rain leaks through the roof
the water that falls in explodes.

This is a string of cold aluminum beads
scraped from the floor while I’m waiting
for the vat to cool a bit. The fans
in the windows are turning just from
the swelling air pressing out of this place.

This poem is the moment when I turned
my back on the glowing vat and walked out
the only open door. This stanza is where
I stepped out in the rain and let it darken
my clothes until they hung from me like sails
and I felt the hard, dry flesh of my face awaken.