I’m tempted at this zombie hour
To steal a line from Yeats or Blake,
For I have walked without a theme
For quite some hours in cold, awake.

But then I hesitate, resist.
Perhaps, tonight is not a night
Where someone’s line excites a thought
I can explore, extend, and write.

Perhaps, tonight is only this:
A fool in poet’s clothing prowls,
Renouncing all the warmths of love,
To have a reason for his howls.