10-Line Tuesday

March 27, 2012

this morning, with butter on my lips
 
Not brilliance, not vision, not a knowing
of any recognizable proportion, not an answer or a question
burning a hole in the front pocket, not a muse bestowing
her touch on a shoulder, not a birth following gestation,
not fresh courage or new grace, not a habit finally broken,
not new greening on a fallow story, not escape from the unfinished,
not signs that point toward summit, not a tongue for the unspoken,
or a hand that guides the knee from pavement. I wished
for all of these when waking, but a silence greeted me instead.
I drank my coffee slowly and took another bite of bread.