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Writing for my muse |
| Who sends her lines Who sends her lines In golden frames Of sounds and words and rythym? Stands naked on these wooded grounds, Lashed tantric to this easel, And spread on word -worn palettes Has served her linen letters? Who sends her lines That sand and wind and tides Can-not erase, And time once touched; Vowelled, lined, and wrinkled? 6/17 |