muse

I feel the tickling
of a poem coming on
cool as fingers
on nascent nape
and I wonder
do you feel it
following behind
in the wake
of your walking?
this small disturbance
of my reluctant fervor
(in italics now)
I am lost beneath you
behind you,
between

I trail intemperate
in your passing
strangely content
with improbably possible
like all poems
impossibly true
and always never

© Sarah Whiteley

8 Comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s