ebb and flow


it was a
quiet torture.
sudden dyings
and small footsteps in
quick-drying sand;
soughing behind windows;
pestilential dreamings:
if one were to cry
out, none would
answer, but

if anyone should ask,
i left in search of a muse
to make even my despair
sing; i
don’t know when i’ll be
back.

i don’t write regularly;

verdant overgrowthmy muse
is unscheduled and
organic, orgasmic;
inchoate; an untame rainfall
squeezing out from the pores of me
onto a blank page as
hardly discernible strokes
of a pen or an ego;
never one to make an appointment.