Where Words Come From

Before the Writer Arrives

Bent over the page, writing.

Bird and house sounds.
Light in soft, gray lines across white desk.
A gripped feel to the chest.

Movement, pen across paper,
and a me
doing the moving.

Isn’t it obvious I make this happen?

Two is how it seems.

—

Near the end of the second page,
attention shifts on its own.

Away from the making of words toward:
where do they come from?

Now there is seeing
in reverse—

—

First
it’s not nothing,
and it’s also not something.

A faint stirring before it can be named stirring.

A word emerges on its own.
And another.

Pen moves, tracks.

Black marks
appearing on white paper.

A voice, internal, mine,
says what’s written.

The same sequence, again.

Not two, me-plus-creation-of-words.

More like a process.

Cars of an endless train.

—

There is a little shock, a pause.
A looking up.

As if to make sure nothing in the room
is different.

Mine, me, I, I’m writing, my hand, my words: results of the experience.

Cars, not engine.

Then, writing again.

Words keep coming.

And Writer—later than it was thought—
moves along with them.

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Related Reading:

Before I Arrive — Before anything becomes me

Off The Tree — A steady succession of I’s

It Comes After — What forms, then gets named