When I Write Interlude

The callas on the inside knuckle of my middle finger sings like creaking floors when I write Vapor trails waste in skies as we watch on our backs, still taked to the ground I turn and I talk to the ground as I write Models on paper bases A city long flattened by the onslaught of now The same people there, but the scale's not right I make windows of tiny valves Like God, make whatever comes to mind when I write A man on the train to my right takes a double G&T at eleven twenty, and that's his right I build him from straw when I write I heard letters, horseback ride And a suit on my hip as I write Pluck feathers from pheasants asleep at roadsides Dip tips in purple ink 'fore I write Slow time, make my own ancient rite Tell stories in between the spaces I write Make space when I write Explore space when I write Take what I like from the space And the state I create when I write Pictures traced when I write I wake when I write I'm late when I'm right When I'm right