I open a window when night rules,
let in the call of owls, tree frogs –
the grunts of an alligator seeking
a mate – the whisper of a muse.
Gentle wind through the trees,
rain that lasts a dream, tiptoes
of loosened mad thoughts move
me, my hand as I act as scribe.
Where is the blade that sharpens
the nib? When is the blackness
merely ink and when dried blood?
What magic potion becomes verse?
By light of dawn I blot the script.
I roll the paper and tie the ribbon.
Place it in a pigeonhole to cure.
Lying down I return to what I am.
* * *
Again, who knows?
Life in Portofino 