I have always glanced upward while awaiting my muse
Perhaps I’d show greater reverence looking down
But there I tend to probe more the internal roil
Rather the soaring epiphany of Erato’s day
Losing sight of the sky and despite infinity’s surround
Heaven is all about us – up and down and left and right here
She assures me

She comes in strange ways – in colors it’s sung –
A tickle now or after, the punchline a tease
Sometimes a thread of feelings begets words begets feelings…
While other times her heart yearns to search
Having never known lost but through me

Fingers to keys, lips to coffee, mind to matter to light to form, me to time
(a myriad of communions in no particular order of holiness)
Constitute blank canvas upon which inspiration transacts
(did you read the f%*king manual?)

Look dead-center and far-away for the close
Out there beyond even the more distant horizon
Where we all recede to a point but continue to fall
In and out of love topsy-turvy through space-time

My muse bobs sometimes like a lost balloon in a corner
With barely enough string for me to reach her
But I always do, on tiptoe or step-stool or helium
And I bring her down and I reassure her that
The world is not yet fully conceived

Chagall 2018