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Linda France

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A Pompeiian Girl Writes to Terpsichore,
Muse of Lyric Poetry and Dancing

May you (and this pen I'm chewing - its cold
iron, blood on my tongue) forever find
me the right word, the precise word, the word
that will dance my meaning in wax, delight
my reader.
May you play your tunes inside
my head, music the stillness of my eyes
won't shed, trapped in their dream of looking.

Muse, the gold in my ears is all for you;
this net I wear on my hair for trawling
thoughts, silver and rippling, fish in the shadows
of ocean. All I ask, Exultant One,
is that you bless me with your nimble pen.

And then, knowing when to put it down,
stop: live and let the words live themselves, run.