Scribbling Sensations


When I turn other things off,

I hear the air-conditioner hum with tiny teeth


I hear assurance from the fan beside my bed


I see the vertical textures in the lampshade of

The lamp that doesn’t work


I see a hat, purchased for walking, set cockeyed upon

The corner of a vintage-mirror frame


I feel soft touches as I type;

I hear the tapping of the keys upon the board,

Like Poe’s raven upon my chamber door


While my nose is in it, I smell and taste the coffee,

Hot enough for its vapor mildly to campaign

With warmth through my sinuses


I feel pain—more intense without distraction


I blink: I cannot hear it, though I know the upper lid

Has fallen on the lower (which will give a little)

and will rise and fall again


While other things are off,

I sense the world anew;


And, largely—like Genesis and Weldon Johnson’s

Work—I think it’s good