Seeing My Muse in a Marketplace

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I hear you before you come into view.

Luminous muse,

you travel on the vibration

of temple bells

and they warn me of your

presence.

Catching sight of you

emerging

from the summer crowd as though

you’d just stepped from icy highs,

the place called Shang-ri-la.

I am close enough to breathe

your scent,

mountain pine, cedar, patchouli.

“Podunkmarte” ,

a magic word

escapes my mouth

in a whisper

to make you look my way.

My lips taste like mango sherbert

I tell you with my eyes,

Yours tell me

you know that already.

The people scupper

between us

I would reach out to you,

in the summer crowd,

but I don’t

because

if I touch you,

you might  turn to ash.

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