Just like dried apricots

I wake up in the middle of the night with restlessness
that seems to meander wordless
or alternately etches upon my fevered brain an eloquence
surrendering neither to pen nor keyboard

 what do I do?

Sentences yielding as I hurriedly transcribe--nothing
Words are such pliable complacent forms of expression
Awaiting as empty vessels to be shaped upon a wheel
But clumsy strokes with a sledgehammer breaks epistles
That I would craft as spirals of intellect

Thoughts that appear perfectly formed vanish into empty pages.
Daring me to imprison them in words.
I grasp and cannot
I really dislike quicksilver conceptions
Thoughts that vanish when you reach for them.
The sort that just glide away impossibly slowly
Yet never really disappearing,
stranding me on the brink of some profound gaping hole.

After all I just like to ask questions.
Collette said the pleasure--it is in the asking.
Answers are much too pedestrian, just like dried apricots
Does that make me petulant?
Here I am filled again with angst or restlessness.

Recklessness whispers her secrets to me
 Mindful temptation
Accepting fire, do I doom the gift giver
A lioness astride a cheese grater no more?
Is my intellectual acumen reduced to the size
of the venus aperture at last?