O sing, muse

I fell asleep once with my memory caught
in tadpoles and roses and water and light,
in the mausoleum where bloodshot eyes
And paper meet (where ideas drop from nubby pencils,
to splay, stillborn, across a sea of white).
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.

When I woke, you were standing
on the edge of my sight,
your eyelids trailing ink.
I watched your hands fold in and out,
The smell of words too strong to think.

You smiled at me and let me fall
into the promise of your face.
There I read snowflakes, sea-foam and angels;
flashes of of glory and splinters of grace.

I asked you in, and your words behind -
'Sing, muse, of roses and water and light,'
I was fool enough to call them mine -
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.