Waiting For the Muse
I scavenge for pressure points—
Press between ruled lines
My expressive probe,
Looking for literal nerves,
Meridians
Defining the direction
Of my poetry,
The resistance and flow of its current
Was I born to sleep,
Or be electrically charged,
Wired—
Magnetic pulses of activity—?
It is late night,
When I usually write—
Without a shrill, shadows silently come and go,
Nod—A suspended presence—
Not a word passing between us—
The air,
Tingly
Like sky and earth
Just before lightning bridges the gap—
Copyright © Joe Dimino | Year Posted 2016
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