Oh,
blessed muse
who are you?

How can
you be
so real?

When
I
sense
your
presence,
a quixotic
erotica;
a
soft
burnish
more
friendly
then
silk
envelops
me.

The folds
of your
warm
*****
press
my face
into
coy
riddles;
more mysterious
then the secrets
of ancient
Oriental
Dynasties.

Do you have
eyes to see,
arms to hold,
legs to dance,
ears to hear
and a voice
to sing?

How
do you
touch
me?

You
enter
my dreams
as effervescent
vapor.

You
frighten
my
imagination.

You
open
doors­
to me
my
heart
felt
long
closed.

You
gently
chide
my
prejudices,
in­ raptures
with
mythic charms
as you goad
and trick me.

You speak
magic words
and etch
fantastic
landscapes
in my head.

You
playful
nymph.

You
appear
in the
night
as a
purring owl,
whispering
something,
about
something,
then
wing away,
into the
glossy night.

Where do you go?

I'll
patiently
wait,
for your
mysterious
return.

Music Selection
America, Three Roses

Oakland
10/98