You can’t escape

the poem that wakes you at night

crying “write me.”

If you switch on the light

and record the words,

you may discard it later as drivel,

or you may extract a precious kernel

as if cracking a raw walnut

to find a morsel shaped like your brain

that tastes so sweet, so carefully spiced,

you dream about it for years.

If you don’t write it down,

if you shrug your shoulders 

& drift back to sleep,

the poem disappears 

like a lone dog bark on a distant block,

and you forgo,

perhaps forever, 

the treasure of night poems

strung together over time

into a necklace of truth.