Not Wanting to Write

by Bill Yarrow

I don't want to write about suicide
or surgery, fantasy or accidents,
inheritance or reduction in force. I don't 
want to write about the body indulged, 
desires denied, tortures invented, pleasures 
innate. The instinct to wickedness. The pull 
toward God. I don't want to write about need 
or drinking or apathy. I don't want to make up
specific details of universal experience or recall
the smells of childhood. I don't want to ransack
my imagination for booty or autopsy society's corpse.
I don't want to crawl into corners, investigate attics,
or poke in holes. I'm done with ambition,
with all the strings and pulleys of art.
I just want to lie down
                                                in the sunrise of your heart
                                                in the garden of your heart
                                                in the orchard of your heart
                                                in the river of your heart
                                                in the forest of your heart
                                                in the harbor of your heart
                                                in the village of your heart
                                                in the chapel of your heart
                                                in                        your heart
                                                in                        your heart