This terrible fertility

by janeeatonhamilton

It is almost like being beset, the writing fugue, except it is marked more by absence (of thought, of intent, of direction) than by presence.  One poem yesterday, and today, two more, one, “A Terrible Lucidity,” quite long.  And I feel I could throw them aside and start anew, frustrated, on a third.  Until I get it.  Until I get it.  Until I get it.