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—