I suppose every poet needs a muse
She popped from the silky water like a otter
To pick a picture out of continuous framed moments
And join us on clay, I land
We became we-land
A singing circle of harmonics
Rubbing rich earth on bare bodies
Sun-block exfoliant connecting touch
Coming back to our roots and our base clays
We cracked and dusting
She wet and willing to join us in the claying.
Gold skin and gold eyes that purred in self-affirmation.
A stroking conversation
A kiss to remember forgotten things
She told me she was a slut once
But no longer, or not yet again.
And I wander again the palaces of wild desire.
Joe Blogs, 2021