I am giving birth to poetry in the night now.
These babies born, not so much in words,
as in scent and intuition.
They suckle me in those night hours.
In the gloaming, I draw sustenance from them, too.
They snuggle to me and I curve them into my arms.
We are a happy family in the eventide.
As morning tide comes in,
I am swept into a verbal amniotic sea.
Weary, spent, the poems squall for me.
Casting indicting eyes my way.
I don’t love them in the wee small hours.
Last night the verses fed my amour propre.
As day breaks, I wish to drown them
in the same bloody flood that brought them forth.