By Christina Wilkins
There is only so much reading you can do
before the words squirm away from you
and hide behind great empty pillars.
But now I’m always reading and my eyes,
that were so used to reading line by line,
are flicking across and between as
there are new windows opened up to
breathe in texts and form. How often
now do I open up the sullen blankness
of an empty notebook and pause?
I cannot always absorb the swathes of
black on white that intently demand fresh eyes.
The still nothing of creating is now being
reformed as we poise not pens but thumbs.
The cool lined paper sitting in wait.