The Poem I Can't Write Version 2

This is the poem I can't write.

This is the tuning fork, the bells cast of Himalayan metal

the one good note sounding on a broken piano.

Where is it?  Why can't I write it?

It's just too beautiful. 

Who would trust someone like me

to utter the dreadful exquisite,

sing the endless glory of the universe?

Who would confer such a gift upon me?

Writing this poem would be like receiving  a robe

of the finest silk,

a garment grave and sweet

as the speech at my father's funeral

when a thousand pipes

wail across the valley where trees dip in the wind.

This is the poem I will write, whether or not I am worthy.

Only I can stop me and I will not stop me, can not let go of the current,

trapped by the grip of my own electricity, charging and burning my hands

and I don't care.  I am simply too small. 

I am the poetic mouse who survives beneath the floorboards

while a world clatters above me. 

I am the poem I have written.