the work of my mouth
for her who has gone
a poem
her, my golden muse
I pack the work of my mouth
in a golden box, laced with
intricately tied ribbons
all that the craft may cross seas
and return to me desired heavy gold:
The golden box is my muse;
the ribbons are her too;
so are the craft itself and the space inside:
the reason and the totality
the end and the beginning
Yet why is it that she now has gone?
I answered her calls,
and followed her orders,
still she left my table empty;
gone with the gold overseas.