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"Waiting For The Muse" (by Joe DiMino)

I scavenge for pressure points—
Press between ruled lines
My expressive probe,
Looking for literal nerves,
Defining the direction
Of my poetry,
The resistance and flow of its current

Was I born to sleep,
Or be electrically charged,
Magnetic pulses of activity—?

It is late night,
When I usually write—
Without a shrill, shadows silently come and go,
Nod—A suspended presence—
Not a word passing between us—
The air,
Like sky and earth
Just before lightning bridges the gap—