A World Away
Bruce McRae

Another night scratching my head
as I reach for a pencil.
Another night spent torturing words
in the mind’s muddied trenches,
proving that yes you can press money from guile
and oil from stone—
If you’d just continue squeezing please …

I’m reminded of other nights,
other battered moons and throw-away stars,
other dusky planets,
the alien writer there also
looking for the right words in the proper order;
holding the equivalent of a pencil
in what passes for a hand.

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