Passing Muse


A poem dropped in on me today,

when I’d had no cold sweat

no feverish sex, no compulsive tidying up.

It splayed itself before me, wantonly.

I knew its intention. I should mention

the way its words winked at me.

I held its gaze, glimpsed its shape

a well-formed line put a hand on hip,

an arresting opening blew me a kiss.

Its curves, not classic, won me over.

Words, tottering with the weight of phrases,

started dishevelling on the page.

And just when I thought everything was set

was rapt in the beat of its breath;

it placed a hand on my shoulder

called me an early discloser

depicting with sorcerial ease

its fancy, decocted, a tease.