POEM: The Pen

Ink drips downward,
And obeys a muscular gravity,
Races to the point
Like it has time to spare,
With no place to go;
Like a stretched B.B. King note.


This point, this needle, this focus of ink
scratches at paper
With snake-like sexiness

As curly-cue round as a Rubens.

Then, strings of the heart start to unroll,
Pressed flat like a buffet, for you to absorb.


And
Through eyes like straws
You suck up the meaning of ink;
You suck up what it means to be lonely;
You suck up being shut away from joy;
And yes, you even suck up death.

Burdened with the plenum of what it is to be human

Filling the tube of inky wash that is you
All the while
Emptying the tube of inky wash that is me.


M C Biegner
2/2005