The Weak of wanting

A weak of wanting.
Of searching under every inch of magazine and wood floor studio and itchy skin.
Of separation from skin – from body touching crevice and round of body.
For Muse. For Muse.
I let the dreams tell me.
I cannot hunt her down with a gun and a net – I cannot cage her with such anger.
I must lay down.
I must, with heavy drunken eyes give over to the letters in lanterns, like moths and night.