(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.