in the absence of a muse

i’m stuck spinning words about the golden hour of morning rush        sinking into the soft glow of night  / this orange sky is harsh & crude & the trees don’t stop to hear this song no one wants a poem about how it feels to be staring at the sky without    blinking if you aren’t staring at the sun  or the moon what do you see when you look at the sky at 3:15 am / what would i find if i asked you to step out of your car right now when the moon begins to melt into the shadow of the sun it’s gone     can i write a poem about the absence it leaves behind /       write me a poem    & maybe its absence won’t hurt as much i will wrap your words in crinkled bedsheets  burn them  see magic create itself out of words / i found lying in my backyard all alone looking for a         home when are you coming home, love? what use are words if not to   call   his name / why should they breathe if not to give voice to the spaces the sun occupies on his face?   when the night falls tonight, look up at the sky / what do you see?    write me a poem about the faces you dream of when you sleep in the middle of the day & the sky is not gentle enough sink   into its arms still        write me a poem about what it feels like to be held without any sense of wonder    does the sky break open your chest to find stars to hang on this empty night        write me a poem i could read to the trees & in return be given a place to sleep / write me a poem & you can     sleep 

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