The Muse Loses Her Temper (Muse #30)

 

It slips, like the pip it gives her,

down the back of the sofa (which she

describes as a davenport, of course).

 

Looking for it, she finds

a scrag end of sonnet, something she nicked

from a scrap anthology.

It moves her

to rummage further. She opens the blinds,

shedding shreds of light on a hand-picked

dictionary of Norse,

 

full of harsh words, consonants, a thick diphthong

she studied in the spring.

And then there is something she was mending

when last she got into the swing

of being a muse. She finds fragments of song,

and, blithely, an irregular ending.

 

 

From Muse Poems and others