Poetry feeds us in that dreaming place
        where we are held captive,
Words slipped under the door --

Here is what I know:
It is food for my muse that sweet sister
        whose moods dictate mine
She throws parties in my psyche that
        last for days at a time
She sings to me of things she's seen
That make my cells careen out
        of the room flying faster than
        thought itself
And the poem's heart appears --

It is as mystical as
        it should be --