Writing after the hiatus

She handed me a pen or a pencil and a piece of paper.
Or else it was a quill and a bottle of ink or a typewriter.
Maybe not paper either, but she offered me her wrist
or her elongated neck

And told me, here this is where your life begins,
where each tendril of each letter forms your veins
and in the inked frenzy of my rebirth I thanked her.
Communicated in how my hands grazed the writing surface;
and she grinned - or she moaned - or she sighed;

that was not important--


It was a white surface marred with dark ink.

That was not important, either.