The pencil in my hand reminds me of myself:
The point struck dumb above the page
Is a wanting to fill an emptiness,
Like a drunkard in need of strong drink,
Like a lover who needs a lover.
Now the point falls upon meaning,
Presses home along the line,
Stumbles drunkenly from word to word,
Fickle lover, weaving likely tales.
Behind the point, the drunkard is stone sober,
The lover is still empty.
It is only the point that is moving,
An ant on God's great desert.
The movement stops.
The point is still,
Until the next drink,
Until the next falling.
Copyright © 1999 Richard