Barren Man
 
Blocked: I sense it with the nib of my
Mont Blanc pen.  A numb heart in the courtyard
exhales its imaginary pall,
the vacant page, like a snow fall upon
Dalmatian sage.  The fountain leaps blindly,
pressured into the world.  A mum hand
nursing my forehead.  My great injury:
several publications.  I stand in white
 
Nikes under blank-eyed attentions:
marble gods in the public rotunda.
Apollo's not dead- uninspired.
Pillars sink back into their porticoes.
Father of the moon lays bland-faced to
slightest footfall of the statue maker.