A poem is scratching at my door, waiting to be let in. “Keats studied anatomy,” it chirrs, without stopping its scratch. I say I’m too tired, won’t play. “Tennyson walked 20 miles a day, or was that Coleridge?” Hoping
it’ll hush, I say I don’t know, and there’s silence. Now my attention is fixed on the absence of sound—save for the fridge and fluorescents’ sotto voce hum, how quiet it’s got. I sit for minutes, ages, eons, wish I gave
in, had opened the door, wish I could turn about and touch its spiky rhymes, hear its meter click across the floor. …chirrup: “Physiological poetics!” It’s lost, the poem scratching at my door, hoping to be let out.