On reading days
the poet navigates her work without memory
or – more accurately – a memory with no true North
or as a hiker without a map and a big thirst.
On days when the phone is dead
the poet declaims to the blind screen as if
by an act of will she can coax a flicker
of certainly from it.
On weekends
it is time for remembrances:
of the first time of another first time every new time
the printed paper is a tuning fork
the faces telling her which way the wind will blow.
On every other day
she hates her voice when she listens to it
she remembers words from earlier drafts
her poems end too soon
some words contain at their tips [that thing in matches]
the dictionary under her pillow gives her dreamboats
this is not what she means when she says tongue-tied.