Muse

He wants me to open my mouth,
muse, but we are all stealing
words from where ever
we can find them, so I swallow hard
instead, that he can take the words
from the movement of my hands
in motion, as though so effortlessly
flawed, he says, but to his ears, music,
as the sentences we construct take air,
where so often I will find them
resting on wires, before they’ll “fly, fly, fly,
quick! to my lover! who waits to hear.”

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