Artists, I’ve been told, are excellent at stealing.
Perhaps it is true; we slip the after-moments
into our pockets and leave quickly, hands placed just so to conceal our bulging treasure.
Or sometimes we stay late,
stay longer, and try to sense the slowly shifting magnetic field,
capture it all in a line, or a few.
I think one cannot steal from a true muse;
we are freely given, even our fragments.
limbs unfurling like one of e e’s lines
emerging paths, hidden depths
And the poetry murmured in the breezes above her.
The consenting muse
is a seduction for the lonely pen and dried ink.
Who can resist such a force?
I like our meetings, and how he lets me take small credit for his changing mind, as if I could.
He manages to cut through my unfocused, forgetful thoughts with a command (so gentle) to arrive.
Now, feel desire as the earth does.
I yearn as She does.
I am a fertile field, polluted with so many habits.
Underneath it all is such good, good ground.
