(just sleep, the beauty of this place will seep into your very blood;
i'll see that you aren't woken up)
how can i find my way out?
i dug this hole all by myself with "no more poems on napkins"
and "i left the notebook on its shelf";
and it's slowed to just a trickle now
but i wish that it was pouring out
because there's so much here to write about.
and all the leaves are turning brown;
they're falling from their branches and landing at my feet,
but i can hardly make a sound, a word of adoration,
for what's surrounding me.
(make it up from here, but i can't make it up from here,
so i won't wake you up, my dear)
and i just want to write with everything inside.