I’ll be blessed!
As I was trying
to start a poem,
                               a whatever words
                                             flow
               from the tip of my
        pen
                       poem,
                                        an ant crawled around
                               on my hand,
                  down the pen,
                                      and off it’s tip
                                                  onto the very paper
                                           I wanted
                                        to fill.

     Now
                 he’s wandering
       through the . . . . .
   No,
             by the time I write it
      he’s
                                    some place
 

                                                                      else.
1970, on a rooftop in Andalusia