Word

Spirit stricken
as though
by outward blow,
wound unseen;
guts and nerve
splayed
across atoms,
invisible . . .
words floundering,
weak,
flailing;
compass tossed
to the four winds
upon
impact. 
How to grip
the pen, then? 
Tightly? 
Loosely? 
Gently? 
Fiercely? 
Spirit's echo
cried out,
ran circles 'round
the pen,
moving it only
by distant breath --
to no unifying
effect. 
Took a word --
a single word --
after the miles
of year and months . . .
a solitary word --
to rouse the
concussed soul. 
And I will not speak it
aloud, 
for it is far too precious
a sound
to an author spiritually spilt,
ground into silt
of shattered nerve --
lost vim, lost vigor,
lost verve --
until that word.