Another Verge

Something shrugs inside you: tugs at you

to draw yourself. You aren’t very good at that,

but acquiescently your pencil dips itself

and what capacities it’s got to stipple, jot

and lyricize into your folderol – and something,

after many careful minutes, slowly forms itself

upon the page. Mildly smiling, not unhappily

(perhaps because he knows the paper’s

acid-free), he wakes and sighs. You blink,

surprised: it isn’t you but doesn’t have to be

for you to like it. And you do! Canopied in chaos,

sticky with the chthonic mud from which

you wish you could have watched him 

with a liquid “plop” emerge, he’s clearly here

to bring you to another verge. And oh, you’ll go.

.