muse

We didn’t think, her and I. There was just no time to think — no opportunity. We did not care to, besides.

(Writing a poem is like chasing a fly. You don’t even start writing it until it buzzes by your ear, lands on your nose and most times, disappears into the ether while you zigzag around the room, waving a towel or swinging a shoe.)

Instead we pushed (she pushed first). I drew breath from her. There was nothing else happening anywhere, anyway. Nothing as exciting as us.

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