A Becoming Muse
The print is not there only the imprint of a poet.
A Muse that has never known words.
only the blank geography of creation speaks for her.
She looks through the ink as if the page were not there.
“If you would speak for me then behead your words,
fill their rolling heads with Autumn smoke.
Give them away as Jacko ‘Lanterns,
make them recite poetry to the ghosts that tumble out
of the bare trees each year
hopeful to hear something new
knowing always that disappointment
still dresses both them
and you.”
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