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My muse is not a monkish heron
meditating by moonlight
like Amituofo
Buddha of Boundless Light.

She likes to sing
in the dark
to the white noise of taxis
trolling the city
and the quick thwacks of Mahjong
tiles on tables
along our lane.

I am her slave
chained to half-dreams
in which I record her impatient
dictations
in my journal with a pen
mightier than the sword
or I would slay her
and sleep for 10,000 hours
on a cloud bed of metaphors
or until the construction
workers in the apartment below
start jackhammering
right around dawn.

5 thoughts on “Morning Song

  1. tireless work–that of the poet in process–always emerging from the shadows to record not only the light, but what it reveals–always you do so with language that trips the wire, bringing a glow to one’s surroundings.

    Like

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