Yes, they came calling
(the spine and parchment guys)
for poems or prose -- like pressed flowers
to souvenir each page.
My muse roused herself
from morning sleep. Naive girl
chambered in a shell, curtained
in the billowing white
of her breath. The pure
scent of excitement.
Yes, they came wanting
(the pen and proofread men) clippings
of thought rooted in her scalp
and instinct in her nails
that dug so deftly
underneath the fence, a secret earth. But I
dabbed her lips
with seaweed and brine; their word
was never made certain. Only a maybe
skimming the tide, the prospect,
like a shore bird winged in gray.
The beautiful painting is by artist, Michal Swider.