I know my muse
she's not a woman

who only needs to be
available for the fantasy
I project onto her

She is active, she creates
what I bring forth
she keeps measuring

my intentions
Oh, if only I could think
of something

to bring her closer
touchable
without her petrifying

into a dead sphinx
dead earth

I am creating

bodies of words for feelings:


living their own life.

The stucco-flowers,

painted over too thickly,


resemble planets.

Sometimes the o sounds

open, sometimes like thunder --


rolling down the Alps.

Open and closed doors
windows shutters castles wards shops towns roads
borders. Follow your path
if you can, where possible

Open and closed gardens
skies valves taps sewers sluices vaults coffins
graves. Look and smell
where you are, where you're going

Open and closed monasteries
societies visors letters flowers looks lips eyes
ears. Listen and be blind
to what you don't need to see

Open and closed books
credits lines veins wounds chakras minds questions arms
hearts. Speak and keep silent
about what doesn't need to be said

Open and non-open
water fire kitchens pans curtain endings conversations
relationships. Be caring
for others and yourself

She painted her nails:

her toes look like little gnomes --


with scarlet red hats.

Remembering some-

one, the light of a star that --


is no longer there.