Shape
An interesting muse has form,
not a template of something else,
but its own odd shape.
This muse, for the time being,
is sensually curved like a Ruben's nymph.
It has dimples and plump folds
even though it is a phantasmagoria,
a thing of no reason or sense.
After a seemingly unnecessary stanza break
it morphs once more.
Hieronymus Bosch’s long nose
peers out of a whales birthing canal.
A giant turtle holds the whale upwards
toward a crystalline sky.
A chilly sea-song
is sung by an Alaskan mermaid;
she is either a fishy popsicle
or a lady being swallowed by
can of Tuna
depending which side-up the reader reads it.
The shape now falls apart,
becomes a mythological heaven
where the shapeless dance naked;
only their pink toes and
belly-button eyes can be observed
through a pinpoint of perception
but that is more than enough for a short poem.
Eventually, a crunched-up ball of paper
speeds away defying critical analysis
and the objections
of the openly open-mouthed and non-plussed.
Enjambment- they happen -
most now must publicly admit, that if nothing else,
this has a uniquely shaped rear end.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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