The head of the snakebird slithers on the water,
joins a gathering of reeds at the shoreline
of the pond. Why must I feel as if
I’m something that I’m not?
As if my loneliness will only grow deeper
as I continue to grow older? My heart
is like the body of the snakebird, submerged,
out of sight. I stare out the window,
wonder if the serpent will reveal its wings
and fly away. It never does.
Even now, as the sky pinkens into dusk, 
the snakebird waits among the reeds.

My eyes can barely make out several shades of black 
and moonlight gray, so I shut them, give my ears 
a chance to delineate the night. They find it hard
to tell the crescendos of the wind from the cars 
passing by in the distance, and for all they know, 
the spraying of the fountain could be rain. I pause 
for a moment to listen to my upstairs neighbors argue,
then turn my attention to the crickets, who seem
to be bickering as well. I am in disagreement
with myself over what matters and why. A person
can only take so much rejection from this world.
What is my limit? I sit in my balcony chair,
eyes closed, ears unfocused, pondering this question.
When I start to feel cold, I know that I’ll sleep well
tonight, and also that the sun will rise before I do.

Unable to write, I look from the book to the pen
to the sliver of sun on the back of my hand.
Threads of shadow move through the light
the way light moves through water. As a child,
I would empty my lungs and sink to the bottom
of the pool, so I could look up and watch
the alternating patterns on the surface. I imagine
ghosts might look similar to someone who sees them,
whether or not they are there. I struggle to believe
in myself, in the value of my words. They sound
nothing like poetry to me. Would I be better served 
dropping this pen, closing this book, moving on
to some other addiction? But without these words 
to express my sorrow, how could I ever escape it? 
Even if it only lasts a moment, in that moment 
I am a kid again, so happy to be floating,
enraptured by the miracle of dancing light.
This is why I write, and this is why I hold 
my pen, book open, staring at my hand, waiting
for the words to come and carry me away.