Often I’m afraid to begin The train of thought Wherein my mind wonders And wanders. Sometimes I stop me again from creeping towards that Dark pool in the forest Where the nymphs swim. From mossy dead logs they dive in Naked as the jaybirds Who are complaining In the trembling leaves above. As The nymphs splash about The Muse steps out of A curtain of dense improbability And stands there. Within The muted circle of silver shadows She lowers her downy head To drink from the still surface of Reflected sky above and Presses her Brown lips to the ancient water. Beneath which swim The writhing Biblical serpents And fat black zombie tadpoles. Afraid Am I to frighten the Muse With some misstep On dead a stick Or to tell a fucked-up joke Or to hear digital donging Or feel a pathological longing. Me A hillbilly hick Wont walk out from it, The dark of the cool, dense forest Where I know I belong. Sure I'll never return again If I leave.
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