A MUSE WALKS IN THE DOOR
A muse walks in the door
as if we’ve met somewhere before.
Is there anything more tempting
than a woman with a vice
and a wound so deep
you’ve been falling for light years
into a black hole you call love
lonelier than the singularity
that hasn’t reached bottom yet
but hears there’s a whole new world
on the other side of her hourglass figure
if you ever do make it through
to the far shore
of her kind of abrupt Rinzai satori
gone, gone, altogether gone beyond.
She reminds me of the city lights of Port Angeles
seen from the southern tip of Vancouver Island
on a clear night by the sea
across the Straits of Georgia.
Fairy dust at the foot of an extinct volcano
starting to get active again
with every upward thrust
of two continental plates
along the San Andrea Fault
trying to leave a mark on the world
by shifting for themselves.
And it’s not always easy
to distinguish between
inspiration lust love and an earthquake
one from another
when the earth shakes under your feet
and the walls wobble like musical saws
in a house of cards
clear-cutting your old growth forests
with a complete disregard
for the senior sonority of the sequoias
or the sound of the wind
in the laurels of their poetry
when Apollo’s trying to get his hands on Daphne.