No One Is Reborn

When you take out the blank white sheets
that tempt you to force them
with all the hatred of your skill
And then, when you read them
with a lit cigarette between your fingers,
slightly soothed and breathing heavily

and later still, when you no longer like them
and wonder whether to admit the fruit is yours,
and after you have robbed yourself of an heir
and them of a parent,
kicking at the broken spiral
toward perfection,
grumbling and humming in the bathroom
as you wash,

the dried-up spring of your song —
far off, so that you will not hear it,
is reborn for your sake.