Waking up with
two disparate songs
ringing through my head:

“See Emily Play” versus
“Incense And Peppermints.”
A dark sort of war until

I do chores and sort them out.
The mundane tames the spirit
down to a manageable level —

towels need sorting, water
needs refilling, the fridge
needs something; maybe later

I will go down to the supermarket?
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just sit here,
very still, waiting for the Muse.

The songs are over now which is a blessing
of sorts. Just have the ringing in
the ears now; just the blackness

behind it, hovering, a giant bluff
of sand and brown glass aiming
to swallow me and never spit me out again.

I can see Emily
in my head now; she’s dressed
in scent and candy — wait: I must

remember; there’s nothing there. Suppose
I’d better settle down, find another
chore to do before the cliff eats me up.

Of course there’s got to be a poem
in all this stupid madness. I could
search it out. Could let it

come to me like tame gazelle
or broken eagle — still fierce
in their ways, though imperfect;

but of course there will still forever be
chores to do. Of course, of course.
There will be chores forever

and I will have
to choose one day to do them
until I cannot anymore,

until
I lie down
and die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T