music
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a nomad muse, she 
separates a poetic
moment from the
rest of mundane life,

I hold the muse in my
mind, of when she
first appealed to me,

I am so thirsty, where
is my muse Bolero,
the one not so serene,
but made of the colors
of The Dream,

the one restlessly
back and forth at
the easel, the one
who splashes paint
the color of dusty
desire across my
canvass,

under a gnarled
pistachio tree,
I open her folio of
faux dreams of aqua
and terra-cotta,
what is my muse Bolero
willing to trade for it,
I have pussy willows
and green tea in
thimble cups,

{she paints with one hair...}

The Dream is nurturing
the painter and the poet,
where is my muse Bolero,
the one who paints with
a single hair, the one who
traces my pubic hair with
a brush with just one hair
that makes her immortal
in a studio garden of iris
and sky of gold-leaf,

frescoes here and there,
where is my muse Bolero...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater