Now words are rare. Whatever synapses
let in the Divine are misfiring. ––
Neurons fail. Neural pathways do not please.
Now words are a struggle. I’m struggling
just to write this. Once I said I’d go turn
a tramp steamer into a library. ––
Sail from port to port, sharing that stubborn
love of books with all who live by the sea.
Now I’m struggling just to write this. Now
I sit in my chair and –– stare. There are no
books here. Words, like the water, turn brackish
each time I go down. Let me drown, somehow,
instead of this decline. Instead I know:
first I floundered, now flail and soon perish.