Monday Poem

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Pythagoras and me @ 2 am
Jim Culleny

I could be up all night
without a single line to write;
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I might be ass-in-chair till 1st light
eyes propped with toothpicks.
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Open, I might sit with digits
poised over a keyboard
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like condors on thermals
scanning the earth for a bite

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the desert page dry and white.
I might even catch some moon-talk.
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She speaks, you know
—whispers to Venus when I turn my head.
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So how might I know then what she said?
Telepathy, a poet's curse, or worse.
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Imagination, with its ears perked
for a little Music of the Spheres
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(a defunct old idea that occurred to a Greek
once who was also up almost in tears
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way past bedtime waiting for a theory
or the sense to hit the sheets).

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