I type the image across the space
and juxtapose it against a frame of memory.
They will be a contrast to one another
as I interpolate a meaning between both.
They sit next to each other in white space
as I wonder where to go, what to further say.
More words appear, thoughts half-formed,
development marred by immaturity.
Music will echo in place of words, uneasy
breaks, enjambments that have nothing
to do with homemade preservatives,
much to everyones dismay.
The cursor blinks knowingly, unsurprised
by any of this. What a job that must be.
Predictability of the muse is only in her
instability and our inability to finish the
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