The client thinks of his muse (Muse #6)
My head is scrabble. Hers
is fresh as a Michaelmas daisy,
surrounded by painted ladies
desperate for dew.
How thin her fingers are, I think. She must be
worn out, taking
my mental notes, finding the pink
in my long blue nettles. Green.
If we could meet. The scarper of her feet
as she runs
herself ragged, turns my words over
like tarot cards, the way
she is worn. Care. Careworn. Worn out.
In quicklime nights,
wedged to my waist, my neck,
the one thing that makes me breathe
is thought of her brambled eyes,
the pouches she fills
with hurt. Heart. Heat. Hoot. No, heart.
Freight, fraught, fruit, fret, fright.
I could not make it up.
You could not. You couldn’t.