Assemblage

I keep going back to the poem, the prequil, the pre-quill poem
before the blank page comes the full mind
the dumping ground of the subconscious creeping onto the
front lawn of consciousness
a tipping trash can in the night wind
spilling secrets, wads of gunk and loosely wrapped unmentionables
like it don't like it
claim you know nothing of poetry
This is all I know:
I am standing in the center of creation.
I can sift through the gunk, pick up a napkin and paste it to the side of a can
unglue, re, un, re, un, re, un
real finally
carved into a line of black ink
reminding me of something I once knew