As I sat down to write last night, I went to an epigraph I lifted from another poem that I had thought about for a while and started to write. Beyond the fist line of my own (not the epigraph) it stopped working. I tried forcing it. The old I’m going to pound this square peg into the round hole if it’s the end of me method of writing. Well, it was the end of me writing anything worthwhile for the evening. It ended badly as these things usually do when I’m in that mode of operation. I become a poet wondering in the desert. Lost.
Perhaps the poet will find his way back onto the page today.