The Muse on 34th and Vine

She stands not quite in the corner of the
Room, fully clothed, entirely naked, with
Wheels, legs, two, four, perhaps six arms.
As you wish her to be, she is. Perhaps she
Is not a woman at all. Maybe she is a sleek,
Fast auto, train, truck, or trestle work, set high
Above the city, or so deep beneath it non but
Future archeologists will ever witness.

And you write or paint or focus, hammer, chisel;
Do you suppose she, in whatever guise, is seen by
You? Do the wanton critics, the explicators of what you do,
Create, define, bestow, lard, ever catch a glimpse of
She who is to be always obeyed? Always listened to,
Always heard, seen, caught, polished, in the end tinkered
At from another angle? Do they see her? Can they see her?

A few, perhaps, sense her presence, understand that what we do
Is a reflection of her singular, universal self; speaking the same quiet
Truth to her followers, practitioners, weather they wield chisels or
Hammers, or pens, or brushes and no matter what aspect they reflect/
The Indian mystics tell a tale of blind men describing an elephant
By feeling its parts, snake, tree trunk, hose and so on, but she
Whom is ours alone to see, she is unique in her countless forms of
Beauty and horror, passion and somber repose, in fire, in ice.

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