Sadly,
Satan did not mark my pen this week,
And so how could I write
Epiphanies of corn reaching toward the sky?
How could I grapple with Eagles?
How could I lay me down in the wounds of grief and sprout roses from my skull?

Sadly,
The spark of divinity sputtered and fizzled
Untempted by the yearning tinder of poetic trance.
All because Satan had other pens to nuzzle.

Sadly,
I would have to blame a cat
For my own timidity
At the possibility of re-entering
     The wonder-roaring intoxication of the Physics which is Poetry.