Fevered (Written June 27)



Flaming out as if fevered,

She pounds the keys, her fingers

With a life of their own,


Until she has what she wants,

A first draft, which she knows

She will have to cut back,


The way a worker in wood

Or in stone has to cut back

The material she’s chosen,


To reveal the form that’s been

Hiding there, all along, frozen

In time. Setting aside all other


Desires and obligations, with

Single mindedness, like a mother

Who watches over her child,


She aims to complete this long work,

Which has come to possess her,

And fire her weary brain.

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