Double Agent

Closed to poetry
I come, expectant, to a moment
where prose just won’t work.
So I sit and wait.

Is the muse jealous of my stories?
Is the rhythm lost?
The stream damned?

It’s such a leap
and I tense those muscles
to cross from something like a simile
to a metaphor unbound.

But I learn the lack doesn’t sit elsewhere.
I’m the one who’s out of touch.

The flow is still there.
But what is left to betray?



About tgrignon

I came I saw I rented the DVD
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