Muse

January 14, 2008
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I do surgery to my words.

I pull stitch after stitch

Through my body—inner heart and

The backs of my obsidian eyes.

The neon lights blaze across the street.

They burrow through the poet’s mind

Weaken it, melting holes through the ice,

Ice of my thoughts.

We seem to be at a stand-off.

Mentally I judge your strength

As if you burn like tallow

Hot, thick, and viscous.

You, the muse and I, the poet.

A capricious relationship

As you inspire my words

And I pose nude for you in them.

Do you burn bright?

I burn brighter.





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