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THE
MUSE LOOKS FOR A POET
with
thanks to Ann Lauterbach
Your eyes should shine backward
lighting up brain matter,
sending neurons into the night
sky
like glowing ashes, red hot
stars
let loose among their cold
brothers.
Life, to you, is pure play and
movement,
is sweat and memory and
burning.
Each breath takes in trees and
moon.
In your eyes, you carry the
recordings
of every kiss.
Your mother’s soft voice is
stashed away
in an empty chamber of your
heart,
resting in a golden vase.
To you, the mind is a leaf in a
hurricane,
a drop of rain in a thousand
dreams.
When you look up, the dark
clouds
meld into signs and fingers and
clues.
If words are gods,
if images, spirits,
and you hear music dripping off
the wings
of sparrows,
then you’re all
mine.
David James
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