I need the warm curl
of fingers around a pen
the brush of hand across paper
scratch of a nib leaving a trail of ink
I need the crossed-out evidence
of thoughts tested and supplanted
not the vaporizing click of deletion
I need to scribble
to squint at scrawl
to prop the spiral-bound notebook on knees
on lap
on the sofa pillow next to my face

I need my pages to compete
for space
with a love-starved cat
(last petted five seconds ago)
till pen-clenched fingers uncurl
to rest against a throbbing purr
and eyes rest on an upside-down whiskered face
with protruding tongue and eyes half-shut
with shameless bliss
(back nestled warm against my solar plexus,
claws half-extended, clasping my wrist)
not a thought of study
recording or analysis
in the blissful moment

I need to write through half-dreams
(take heed, shouts the unconscious scribing hand)
cryptically recording doubly-lost thoughts
then bolt awake
as pen hits floor
(how could a sleep-dazed body type 
anything but the letters-numbers-spaces
as face meets keyboard?)

I need to write by moonlight
eco-correct fluorescent light
on a page that projects no light
but whatever
flickering thoughts
may illumine
or dim
its surface

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