A pile of pistachio shells now bears
proof to an odd version of writer’s
cramp – ‘tho an atypically effaced
addiction to tiny green Asian nuts is
lost in translation as a poem waits
in the wings – an impasse too often
seen sadly and inimically repealed
by the same mawkish thing
Experience won’t lend itself easily
and esoteric expressions fail, weird
ideas of obtuse origins refuse to gel;
brain exhausted with taut surface
begging repair, mired in ingestion
of life’s infinitesimal seeds
© 6 April 2011, I. D. Carswell
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