To those who create overmuch
I say: Let it go. Your muse leans
over
the railing, she squints, has a
hump
on one side that hobbles home.
Let her dance only at the full
moon,
arms spinning like silk, death
gone from the gilt mirror
yet lurking under her feet, the
bones
you put there to be reflected on,
know the artist’s business should
be
to get out of the way of life,
let it happen and walk unafraid,
not words but deeds—or if you
must,
a pirouette the pedagogues
discuss.
