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Muse
January 14, 2008
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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