(This poem was written on a ‘Wolf at the Door’ retreat in Scotland, c. 2014.)

I would like to spit
Out poems
Like bullets.
Instead,
They dribble
Down
My face.
Oh!
To shine,
Like the Moon,
My love -
To soar,
Above the clouds.
Alas!
I am left
With my feet
On the ground,
Staring up
With a pain
In my neck
And my heart.
Always,
Like this.