In honour of National Poetry Day in the UK:
Conversation With My Muse
When you come
is it to rescue me from deserts
or to remind me of the tomb?
of a life harvested through imperfect eyes
my impoverished graces
dovetail the frame of a bloomed mirror.
are the unwanted faces
of twice-wagered dice, the taunting of bankrupt old age
at the failure to infuse my tongue
with the suitably profound.
Aspiring to more than love or rage
I wait to be freed by song
as if there are notes to slow down time,
and slowed, for retarded time to be stopped by rhyme.