Demiurge

The poet can't afford to lose his muse,
so much inspired splashed to pages red
with soul's blood bubbling out in fountain
played upon this sky of indigo and sparkles.

I am a beast of animal emotion eyes aglitter
peering through the amber straws of foliage expired
out on a hill in late September, evening and desire spent,
on haunches searching as I creep in sage and oak brush,

eyes upon her rising in a mist of memories so ancient
as the bones of my own brooding conscience
that I see her ghost above the breeze-play grasses
shimmering hieratic in the language of my Mother.

I have known her all my animal days, and saw her ghost
appraising from a distance, she who is your doppelganger,
eyes so deep as deep Antares hanging over southern regions
where my life began in seas that were a cradle rocking.