(for me: perhaps five
for them: perhaps five.
does that make everything
five by five?
No, it just makes it all a lie.)
I am not a poet
or a muse
yet I wonder at amusement
and the way our bodies serve
to park or drive
ambition
and what would happen if
libido disappeared
before it was conceived;
would any of us have
been?
to the top of heaven
in a golden chariot
made from sallow, starved flesh
(if only for touch
if only for hope)
of another human being
we found lovely in the waning light
Do lovers ever realize?
I've read words
scribed between the inches of skin
exposed like eyes
against the burst of winter winds
Or maybe
just a Writers Cafe
that remains static
like our friendship
(if only that word
existed outside of our vocabulary
because then it wouldn't exist,
he moaned)
or maybe just Facebook messages
about creeping into dreams.
Do lovers ever realize?
I've written words too.
Yet--
none of us
(I could say neither but I speak
for you too)
none of us
are muses,
except perhaps
Unfulfilled Desire
(I hear she's dreadfully inspiring)
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