"I believe in visual story-telling," she said,
wearing a dragon print kimino.
"Maybe a more impressionistic style — 
dabs of action,
draws of conversation,
                      monologue,
and a straight
       straight
                 narrative heart."

I hid the champagne glass,
                 full of cigarette butts
                 and candy wrappers,
quickly, discreetly,
         beneath a towel — 
"My words," I said,
turning from the keyboard
                 to look at her,
        to look at her head on
        to take in
                her morning beauty,
"My words, no longer fly."
"Oh baby, what's the matter?" — 

She moved toward me
        with the grace of a bird — 
I knew what my problem was — 
I was trying too hard to write.