I have packed the poet’s suitcase meticulously,

Filled it with words and shadowed light,

Folded these shining moons with some precision –

Yet all my planning is for nothing.

This poem refuses to be grasped.

Slithering obstinately into the dark

Pockets of this bag,

It leers and jibbers,

Refusing to talk to you of you

Growing distant from me

It’s empty words are nonsense,

It’s promises always broken,

It is a half formed melody

And I struggle to hear it.