Inside First Draft
A mournful autumn eats me like a mustard seed
forgotten cat tossed in a spit of frozen smoke
makes up her mind through rough cuts and blind alleys.
Cycle me out every draft, even in your mind
I’m just a muse, a wild-haired passing
glance to satisfy one that will replace me.
But I am more than an outline in search
for paper meeting ink, silverfish that skitters
on wood pulp within a spiral bound notepad ring
with stars of fame and Saturn’s secret. I am
the chewed out portion of crisscrossing red ink
where the slopes angle down to her denouement
last finishing touches bad-mouths my rivals
as vital progression to razor embracing skin
opium lighting the censored twigs while
I make love to your religion.
where would you be?