I wonder if some writers wake up at 4 am, desperate and aching
to write, the same way the moon longs to touch the tops of the trees at night.
Do they stumble downstairs in their pajamas and woolen socks,
sleepy and bleary-eyed, with the typewriter or a pen and paper
waiting for them at the kitchen table?
I hope they write about beautiful things.
How they can see the spines of jellyfish through their clear bodies,
how fireflies continue to blink on and off
even after they’ve been trapped inside a jar.
The way elements are made up of molecules and molecules
are made up of atoms.
I wonder if they drink coffee while they’re writing
to keep themselves awake.
Maybe the tree branches scrape against the windows
and they jump, briefly, startled that something else
is awake, too.
Do they forget where they are?
Do they handle that typewriter like a lover,
holding it, stroking its keys, smearing its pages
with their fingers?
Can they differentiate between its pulse
and theirs?
I hope they use every vowel and consonant they can think of.
I hope the moon comes to join them,
pours its light through the window like an old friend.
Maybe the writer will light a cigarette, and its smoke will hang
in the air for awhile, curling and twisting so prettily.
I hope they write
a masterpiece
before anyone else in the house is awake.
And at seven am, after writing feverishly for three hours,
maybe they’ll pack up their typewriter, and their pen and paper,
and tiptoe quietly upstairs and back into bed
to dream of syntax and pronunciation and syllables
that slip as smoothly off the tongue
as moonbeams.