The poet didn't know why she couldn't write poems. She had studied how to do it, and she had a good wood desk that faced a window that faced the open sea. She had a stack of paper given to her by a kindly aunt, and a box of pencils from the store. She had more time than she knew what to do with. But she had no poems inside her.

She bit her lips until they got chewed up and swollen. She bit her nails until they got raggedy and torn. She stared at the ceiling until her eyes crossed and burned, but her mind was empty of poetry.

Finally, she decided she had had enough.