inflammatory writ

oh, where is your inflammatory writ?
your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'

our music deserving
devotion unswerving
cried; 'do I deserve her?'
with unflagging fervor
well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it

but what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true
ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you

even mollusks have weddings
though solemn and leaden
but you dirge for the dead
and take no jam on your bread
just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed

and all at once
it came to me
and I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty
but that vestal light
it burns out with the night

in spite of all the time that we spend on it
on one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet
while outside the wild boars root
without bending a bough underfoot
oh, it breaks my heart - I don't know how they do it
so don't ask me!

and as for my inflammatory writ?
well I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit

advice from the master
derailed that disaster
said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'
while across the great plains
keening lovely & awful
ululate the last great american novels

an unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit
but at least they didn't run, to their undying credit

- Joanna Newsom