What Inspirations Bring

I dislike being too inspired –
passions hit, too much desired –
suddenly I’m shivering
in some absurd new quivering

uncertainty: born of the kick
itself, convincing me the trick
of my existence now
depends on figuring out how

I can invade an art
to make it viscerally part
of my frail flesh.
The wound’s too fresh

to tolerate: I need the balm
of letting it subside to calm
annihilation. Playing Bach
and having it unlock

me is a dicey enterprise.
It’s hard to feel right-sized
after its dark intoxications:
they mix with other sweet relations

I might have (let’s say) with you.
And that can’t help but skew
the whole damned thing.
But that’s what inspirations bring.




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