stolen lines

you borrow lines
that you read, that you come
across in an old
book, plath or bishop,
strand or frost,
it doesn't matter.
it just takes a word
or a thought,
to light your little
fire, to get your fingers
moving again
across this worn
and fading keyboard.
you imagine they don't
mind, having stolen
from others, themselves.
making the pilfered
lines their own.