I wish I could dream
of Michelangelo
or at least of women
talking of him,
But when I awaken,
I futilely grab at fragments
like one who is drowning
reaches for air.
And when I gaze
at the waiting page,
I think perhaps the Muse
is not my friend
because there he goes
inspecting cracks
in the ceiling again.
Ha, shades of T S Eliot a little cracked!
ReplyDelete