Writing Poetry

After William Stafford

It was lost for good, I thought, the writing, but no,

as the poet says and I quote, it is like a very faint

star,

if you look straight at it you can't see it but

if you look a little to one side it is there.

It's that speck, the floater in my right eye

torn from the back of the retina and lodged

a little to the right of my vision. The particle

I kept trying to blink away and couldn't,

nothing but irreversible loss, damage,

until the eye became habituated, and I forgot.

Now, to bring it back I stare, unfocused,

into a middle distance. The speck floats,

steady as a planet.