On Writing

On Writing

by Gideon Burton

Of what exists that matters in the gray

and wet cerebrum, liquid rivers flush

with possibility, ideas that stay

until of course new currents crossing rush

a mash of second thoughts, as though the poles

of gravity inverted in a flash–

I only feel, yet cannot firmly know;

so volatile the mind, so fragment-fast.

But as the ink commits me to its form,

as sentences reveal what hid before

(secure in mute obscurity), the storm

subsides; the spyglass finds the shore.

        For as I write I come to know my thought,

        unborn until I craft it as I ought.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - athena