sometimes i see my poems held together
by my breath alone.
at times i feel my raised fist clench them tighter
hear my soul rip
as i hit the computer keys.
i wait, wanting for times
that the words are hot moist
nights, in and out, slick and spent.
there are new words, poems birthed
yowling, joyous with life,
taking that first deep gulp of air.
poems that took nourishment and grew in me.
but then, there are
the dead words, decaying in the ground of my imagination.
rotting on the tip of my tongue, gone after awhile
but never forgotten.
words bound up in my breath.