Muse

where’s the muse these many days
that visitor of my soul with the voice
all its little flags and stones
its long corridors and hiding places
its electricity and galaxies, its days
in from the rain and its parades
the thrill of its knock out, the sad
of its sad, its bones and finery
its sackcloth and muddy sandals
the message it arrives with now
in a language I don’t understand

. . .

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