in retaliation. We, its sleep,
stumble upon the muses...
a muse stumbling. Like my own
clean hole, something falls
with the scrape of the pavement.
A dead limb, we wake up
in a wake. Hearts do things
hearts do in poems without
muses. Say it implodes,
takes its pills before the
gentrification. Rights the
skies, runs its noses. Checks
its e-mail for mortar. Dreams
are like that, they’re okay
like we are, hosed on a Saturday
morning. Defiance. Perturb-
ation. Sleek bird calls to the
rust. A pleasant scrape, a check
for a hundred sows and blouses.
