How to have a muse

Meet her. (It will
always be a her.) And maybe
you meet her in a bar, at a house party,
maybe you come across her
at a gallery opening or
somewhere clean and bright and still
she is the cleanest, brightest
mud puddle you’ve ever seen.
Meet her and learn her name:
covertly if possible, with
your heart in your mouth and shaking hands
when you nonchalantly ask a friend.
Do not approach her: you
are not ready, you will spill
the whole of your portfolio and all
your darkest secrets at
her feet. Find out where
her band plays, find out where she buys
imported whole bean coffee, find out
where she takes her hangovers
and brush up against her,
many times. Maybe you introduce
yourself. Maybe your friend
connects you. Do not tell her
that the curve of her
shoulder up toward her neck
is made of god, do not tell her
that her voice makes
your childhood pick itself up
and dust itself off. Do not tell her that
her laugh, especially when she’s surprised,
is hammered gold. Most importantly,
do not tell her that she appears
in your dreams, a sweat-speckled pile
of long limbs and red lips, and
those eyes and the way they
look at you, do not tell her that you
are out of breath when you
wake up, when you wake up and
sing write paint explicate her.