376.

I woo divine inspiration,
I read it poems of itself,
I sing of its beauty,
I imbibe it, I request it for tea.
I dress in my most pleasing,
I enter as dream-like as possible, floating,
thinking of nothing in particular.
I say “come, sweep me up.”
I empty my calendar for the afternoon.
And then I feel it, whooshing in,
knocking on the door.
We chat awkwardly at first like we haven’t seen each other for a while
and I loosely write on the page.
Soon, we become close again and then we are back-
the re-connection is always my favorite reunion,
writing on such a high that the world disappears.
Even now, I can always read back
and pick out the poems that came from the height of making love.
When I read them, I feel the butterflies,
the color in my cheeks from the memory.
The upheaval of the divine’s touch and transference.
The words are merely a stamp
shaped by grace’s visit.
I cannot wait for what is next.
Even our breaks apart are glorious-
drunk on the memories,
planning my next date with the divine,
sharing the afterglow with other lovers.