I tried to write a poem today. 
boy with hair of silk, I’d named it,
then deleted it all, calling 
the assembly of words, flash fiction. 

In the poem, his hair enveloped him like a caul.
The doctor almost dropped the child.
An attendant nurse in green scrubs yelled out
and knocked her hip against the metal tray
of soiled implements, scattering them to the floor.

It’s all gone, now. I never used to be scared
of writing, drunk
on my relative youth and the words I’d read. 
Today, I question every word, soberly.
Each piece can become a reason
not to finish. To be honest, my mind’s eye is
blind (when you say, picture a beach, I can’t ).
All I have is words, and my wobbly faith in words:

boy with hair of silk. flash fiction.
enveloped him like a caul. soiled implements, 
scattering. picture a beach.