Rumi wrote his poems from Heaven
Frost penned at his farm,
Whyte writes from an inner edge
Dickinson from the heart.
Different places, yet the same,
Still I'd like to know
Where I write from most the time,
Where Muse and I are one.
Perhaps I write on top a bridge
(Perhaps the bridge: my poems),
To my right is cosmic flight
To my left are stones.
Underneath, mystery flows
Its running quiets soul,
Wind stirs embers in the mind --
Muse begins to row.
Poles of paradox: rock and space
By them I'm torn apart,
But on this bridge where two are one:
My Muse and I find art.
[alternate ending]
My muse and I both fart.
