Temporarily Out of Order

Paging through semesters
(years) worth of literary
magazines, my muse seeks
inspiration. If only it were
so easy as picking a poem,
reading the words aloud
(how you sound when spoken,
writings of former classmates,
people I've never known),
transcribing the beats
to memory, studying
line breaks and the assonance
of the fifth line of page 39,
spring 2004. My muse is
not impressed with my ability
to read other people's poetry,
sigh over how they've made
Wisconsin into something
beautiful, something deep
and transcendental, and slouch
in a writerly funk because
I want to do the same
fucking thing.

She'll come back to me.

She always does.