This morning I write when I do not feel like writing
without thought of ought or should
or striving to meet any standard of perfection.
The words are all there in the air and,
whether I pull them down through my typing fingers
or leave them for another day or for someone else
to use for me, they patiently do not call for attention.
This morning the busyness of the world can go ahead
and compete against itself believing one side
or another can and will prevail. I choose not to be
in the press of such effort but in the rhythm
of small places where people once stood
thinking there was something more to all of this.