To Question a Corpse
I cannot call a poem, it calls me
It comes, I never go to it
.
Some days working alone
one will muscle in and say
let’s scope this out
—it’ll pry at essentials and tug
lifting the lid on the casket of the past
to question a corpse
.
think happenstance—
a thing coincidentally side-lit
glancing off bone, or the sound of a song
falling from a window to the street
as I walk by
.
a brush with a miracle might do
and a poem will come, as when alyssum
looks so perfect in July
.
there’s no such thing as inspiration
other than that I inhale whatever comes
and exhale the words a poem discards
as it vanishes in a clear sky
by Jim Culleny, 1/1/10