Just

This creative thing,
i
don't have permission for
i
don't have the authority to engine it,
and what happens when i turn my palm upward
is that i notice
the estuaries at knots with my forearm,
a map of the vitality needed to write
This.
i
don't have a trail of footsteps to follow
where i imagine i'm heading
in fact,
i
don't even know where ahead is.
all i see is This thing
slippery between the fingers coiling and grasping
from within the gashes of my brain.
turning over an abyss
i get to expect my eyelids to close like lids over bread bins
and open a less-than second
or hours after
to the same space as if it's just been captured on film.
click
and it's a trail of crumbs disappearing 
in the desolation of everything behind.
i
don't see it.
This, no remains.