“The Sun is thousands of times bigger than Earth; I block it out with my hand.”
- William Stafford
Well now I’ve done it,
started a poem with an epigraph
by none other than William Stafford
and now every syllable of this piece
better live up to the giant, the Sun.
And that means, if you follow the logic
of the metaphor? analogy? aphorism?
(she’s unsure, ha, ha!), I block his words
out with my hand, like that redactive
poetry scheme to reveal a fresher
universe of language:
Nope, that’s not me,
not my hand, anymore,
I won’t try to sell you this poem.
My pen across the page
makes a sound that tells
me nothing about where it is headed,
(also a thought of Stafford’s,
a beam directly into my brain).
I never know what to expect,
or when everything is finished,
what I've said or omitted,
if anything has taken root
at all, or even if it matters.
The ideal life for words:
under the Earth (not a star!)
instead of above it.