A Holy Doubt

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
and dying
as it's brought into the light.

I will rend it from bone
and swallow it whole.

Maybe it will be my holy thing.