I used to be able to just sit down and write these things
and the words were always so right
but now what wrestles its way to my page
is vile, vile,
vile,
and often tastes of blood, a different sweetness
or of salt, or motor oil.
It used to come to me in waves
it used to come to life
as from a teaspoon full of cream
and some tissues I bled into that can't be wrung