my muse field 
                                  left unsewn 
a Sabbath for my muse
or turning off the poem machine
as Bukowski would say 

Hey, the muse like you (and me) must rest

maybe just for a night (I hope)
longer if I must
as my days  my news  my pain
minds-eye
camera-eye
dead-eye
mix together
conceptualize synthesize exercise  
what I wish to say

fertilizing the field

‘Til then
here’s to the muse
of an empty
poet