Some poets wear loss like an honour, shine line
and syntax until, bright, it stars the dark.
Why write? Why use up in words the shared nights
slurring stories until late? What is this, then,
a casket for his ashes, a monument for the man?
You asked if I'm writing much. Well,
it won't come. It won't come. In my hands, thoughts
are sand; in my mouth, words too drunk to talk.
Written by Gregor Addison