Writer’s Bloc by Ray Greenblatt

____Body clenched for months
____with mittens we try to clutch
____the transparent word.

____Humidity wraps round us
____hot towels obscuring the eye
____our achievement a few drips.

My inspiration lies as flat
as that new rolled field,
not a sprig, a twig sneaking up.

My body a sack of bones
with no dance to it
not a jog, not a kick,
not two bones to knock together
for one dismal tone.

My still poem is a soundless scream
in a terrifying dream
not a peep, not a word,
only breaking awake
in a sweat, absurd.

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