I Am Not Your Muse

I am not the eternal muse of the one with pen in hand,

The girl—merely—not of words like stars but of bone only.

You sit beneath the wide light of empty page and

I can only watch as you sing your words like stars across it.

Everything I have is machine made by the cold line of our time

And you love the impossible pure of wind and words like stars.

Now I see you as you are—alone—beneath the impossible pure,

Dead as the poets that once sang their words like stars.

I am dancing this machine—with, against, around,

And you—you are stuck in your impossible stars.