The Muse

I tape quills to the underside of each forearm

In order to simulate flight

–

My heart serves as both inkwell and millstone

Depending on the proximity of my muse

–

There is no catharsis in withdraw

Only the dissemination of sorrow

Through undignified outlets, namely

Crying when one is fearful of sleep

–

When in company my muse surreptitiously plucks

The numerals from every clock within visual range

That I might remain indefinite in confinement

–

She is the residue of every lunar passage

Since the dawn of my existence

She translates my failings into wisdom

There is no drug more permissive than poetry

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