Every time I think
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—

the muse visits me
at 3 a.m.,
an ephemeral, esoteric vision

of poems I have yet to read,
facts about the solar system,
black holes giving birth to stars,

while I lay under a ceiling
in a purple slip dress
instead of the celestial bodies.

All of my I can’ts
undressing themselves
slowly.

I know—

space is a given,
space is a given,
space is a given.