Sometimes,
One just wants to write
the essential lines and
leave the rest of the page completely blank.
One doesn't want to
write the, if, an, it, so, just,
meanwhile, sometimes, to, and, of etc.
One just wants to put to paper
the sentence around which the poem got woven
like God writing Earth
out of nowhere in this horrendous space.
Later one day
When some bugs, ants, flies, spiders,
crawl the spaces,
as one is breathing down,
does one understand how
they appear to be
God's own prepositions
God's own conjunctions.
Only later
does one realise that somehow,
all the details matter -
Even the seemingly wrong ones.
A poem is a gift held together by details.
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