My Muse Is A Junkie Poem by Patti Trimble

My muse is a junkie,
confused in the territory of feeling.
He wanders the plateau
above unconscious seas,
walks to the edge, pitches over,
then climbs back to sink
into my arms with one breath.

Some of us are born twice
to the same world where loss
is a circle, we wear it on a finger,
gold to symbolize commitment,
to signal we are already stolen.

The sign for a wave is continuous,
uroboros, infinity, the ring crossing itself.
Whatever you tell me about this ocean
I will believe: it is a political being,
bickering on the surface
slapping alert the incoherent.

Chant for it, cross yourself
before you ride the waves.