A feeling of old has returned suddenly,
one that often meant, in the past
the birth of a poem.
These waters rise, like now,
but out of tune with the moon.
These waters simmer too and spill over
on pages, bare like skin.
Words hang around, some consistent with my ill's,
some not so,
and some desert me, like now, as I was almost on the verge
I have recognized this moment of unease and it's
unhappy jazz many times,
and many times too, like now, I have sung harsh odes.
I have lost the fizz of this water, right now
I feel my date with words went suddenly wrong.