paper trail.

Mothers and doctors and breadbakers and fishermen
sit erect like baby birds waiting for the words to empty from clouds of tasteless manna, patiently.

A skidded landingstrip of fibrous, clean paper tainted like virginity stripped
without regret, remorse, and more to show than sheets stained and pillows damp with sweat.
Rather, a sweat of the heart in love, lust, and verse.

Of one million windows on the east coast alone
Seventy-million lips are sent to quiver as fat clear drops of acidic salty wet fall.
Pens are swift to paper with intense scrutiny of every moist driblet.

A composition of the finest composer; human, tea-drinkers who feel.
Amber liquid bleaching and bleeding life from the finest corners of poetic conjecture.

Thick red books of Lowell and Plath smelling of basement underground,
sleeping on shelves of metal, painted grey or blue.  Sponges of time and reeking of musty brown earth. A writer's pillow in crisp old pages like new dollar bills.