Muse’s Market

i find the Muse's market operates at strange hours,
carries few of the items I'm looking for
and unapologetically caters to Other’s needs
whenever i pull up with my checklist and expectations
throbbing like an absessed tooth

the solution is what I call commuting retroactively;
somehow driving towards the supplies I had been seeking
while simultaneously watching them appear in the rearview mirror

strange dance, this asking without asking ~
feels like stepping backwards on an up escalator,
moving two directions at once
while somehow anchored in the the present

that's when grace flows and Flow is graced,
when the market isn't just open
but is Opening itself

moons and stars roll like marbles toppling event horizons, while impossible topiaries wander green hills singing stanzas from poetry that is shrouded from the head but understood by the heart

runs ons are run offs here, feeding the Great River that is banked only by accepted exceptions;
an eternal quantification of perfection through a sample size of One

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