The Pen

Ink drips downward, And obeys a muscular gravity, Races to the point Like it has time to spare, With no place to go; Like a stretched B.B. King note. This point, this needle, this focus of ink scratches at paper With snake-like sexiness As curly-cue round as a Rubens. Then, strings of the heart start to unroll, Pressed flat like a buffet, for you to absorb. And Through eyes like straws You suck up the meaning of ink; You suck up what it means to be lonely; You suck up being shut away from joy; And yes, you even suck up death. Burdened with the plenum of what it is to be human Filling the tube of inky wash that is you All the while Emptying the tube of inky wash that is me. M C Biegner 2/2005