On the honed edge of morning
a poet slumps in his chair
in a clutter of lines
too pretty to use,
the phosphor-bronze sun
just clearing the trees
where shadows recede,
goldfinches dipping
through the anodized air.
The open blade gleams on its tray.
Writing is easy. You just open a vein.
—Nietzsche, Red Smith, Hemingway, Paul Gallico, et al.
