The Artist Speaking To His Muse Poem by Mark Heathcote

"When, I paint" do I "dither" to control myself?
So, I am, constrained, before I begin, our joint, fast.
…Consumed…
Holding back; from the tips of our tongues",
The words we have longed: palpably to taste.
Are you; consumed by my whelping - desires?
When, I down pallete-knife - engaged in oil-fires.

"Here on my canvas: are you not, a poet's muse"
Do you not, aren't we not, invertible aflame -
Within, these pages, as a smudged pastel nude?
Could it be then, you're my lifetime's stoic muse?
Are you soft, white-marble, like Venus de Milo?
Do you - pout; without - giving out?
I ask; who's been, overly, stretched…
It isn't me. I'm just longing to paint.