Muse

Her nerves were mine.
They seemed to multiply
and lumine of her eyes
bechanged my earthly face.

Few words she whispered.
Few words she throws,
a famine all as may be sure.
O Lord!
Be it her business or the time
your defenses
that you'll find
in accents of lost light.

for her 'was'
a seeing glass
'will' be,
and
maybe read,
or so my heart has said.

Few words she sets in dangling lists,
or heavy clanking chains.
Fear not thy beauty's veil of their dolorous
shades of pain.
With the moon-tints of music, hope still.
With moon-tints of wealth, be stern.

Not otherwise your counsel give.
For of me are these gushings now,
strange with her colors.
March my feet in the truth of ocean sands
and teach of blue.
My spirit free endures no sinking wave.

Leave to me the bluest blue
genes,
uniforms, official duty,
neon, posters, signs,
or berries of itself,
of Image.
Ghost itself a Chalice cup.

All words are gates unto she,
and if indeed they come,
these foolish dreams,
thereby more may joy as I,
who saw the cool black on white
and so faltered, talking mainly,
vainly as if in any natural kind.

over the ridge or alone in an alley
beset and besotted old witch,
or never assailed and not yet wassailed,
young girl as in passing
she smiles and starts flashing
an eye and an aye and an i.