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.