My Poetry Journal

grows quietly upon the desk
in the half-pointillistic,
half-calligraphic storm
that transmutes lightning into thought.
My storm of electrochemistry
turns the pen round, circling,
dotting, slashing, spurting cobalt.
I am Father, Child, Mother --
impregnating, gestating, delivering.
I wear a mask when writing,
so as not to infect young creation
with myself.

Scott Speck
08/01/99