I think that I have no poetry in me today,
no stillness to beg the muse to come,
no holy attentive sight
to place the ordinary things
in shrine shrouded garlands of thought.
Instead I have doubt,
a freshly caught trout
all gaping maw and flapping gills
as it's brought into the light.
I will rend it from bone
and swallow it whole.
Maybe it will be my holy thing.