Writer, early morning

Disengaged from herself
Like a ship loosed from a mooring.

She floats through the house,
As if it were a foreign sea.

Pulled back,
The curtain reveals a rueful moon
Sinking against the hesitancy of sunrise.

Objects have lost their certainty.
Remnants of dreams,
Follow her like wraiths.

Catching them
Is like trying to hold smoke in her hands.

Anchored by will now,
A cripple sitting in a wheelchair of fear
her anger, like a wall without windows
stops the words from coming –

The gleam of computer screen,
Clatter of keyboard
her only doorways through.

100807