The last time I heard,
The voice of the muse
I’d been listening to all
These years had not
Come clean with me as much
As poetic decorum warranted—
Clearly, what she’d wanted
From me was consummate,
Complete fealty masquerading
As poetic licentiousness,
And not by any twist
Of a garbled imagination,
A license to play down-
Right dirty with my mind.
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