The Muse
for Duane Locke

The animus of your pen, visage beheld, rivulet images, sepia, effluence of strophes, claret. Metaphysic lily pads impulse siren-straddling prosodic canals within your silted genius. Melisande to your Pelleas by curve of cheek, the importunate finger, frisson of tonsorial disarray, in 8X11 disturbance of ethers. The mighty bard asea in glossed montage gives way to Calliope, Thalia, Erato, Melpomene opening the door shrine wide to whatever comes, whatever comes…

Est est est, held fast, a balm for civilization of monstrosities, diaphanous saffron prorogue. Here is my body so contrary to au courant opinion in my terrestrial mysticism, stripping the parlor of its veneer of lies, dissembling your shadowed linguistic constitutivisms and contortisms, capturing leaf in the bosom of my web.
Words ARE passion flowers.