I feel the first slippery
		     silken drops of poetry rise
		      to spill from the pen-tip:
		   How to catch them perfectly, in
		    which spine-stitched notebook,
		  creamy satin pages yet unsullied?
	       The torrent presses, escapes, warm, wet
	      ink spills, runs through fingers grasping,
		 visions glitter in soft jewel colors
	    a message thumps in tick tock staccato, pulse
	      racing now thickening warm verse slipping
		     onto the damp page, elastic
			 slick with portent,
			   dry soon as the
			    moment surely
				fades