Ode to the Muse at Wolff Cottage
I know you live here among floor gaps and plaster cracks along the bedroom wall
where sleep fetches a new shade of morning sky through half-draped tall windows
and I call you out or you find me, not sure which
Yet, somehow, you greet me each morning before or after the walk to the Bay.
Later days, I see you in faces I meet counting sidewalk lines back to you
The woman with a home outside the Library, I hear you in her, too; sure of it now.
Take me with you, she shouts to no one.
I beseech you for Lady Alchymia, but mainly her adepts whom I hunt in your black-white
kitchen; perhaps it is hers, once was hers, but you live here now
louder than all of them.
You meet me in this room where I scribble solitary words sprawled like magnolia cones
littering these rooms as some random cover to hide the gist, the discord.
Perhaps the stories by these other guests carved you forever into shelves of rhetoric.
Did you remain here for me? Tell me you did.
Stop with the questions, you say.
Point me to answers, I say back.
Answers are not why you came here, you say finally
as I ready to depart, leaving you behind for the next
and the next after that.