by Natalie Grigson
When in an Amsterdam coffee shop
You notice things
In a slightly different light,
Mostly a little dim and out of focus,
Like in a theater
Lit by dusk.
Smoke that smells like the color purple
Percolates and pricks at your eyes.
Your vision becomes just cloudy enough
To see what you’ve always ignored—
The way the pen barely touches the page
A p p e a r .
When everything comes from thought
These words break the rule
Solely from ink
Onto the page.
How long has this pen been waiting
For this unexpected and
To spill its contents?