It's summer and my regular muse
Has gone off the grid, climbing rivers,
Wading through mountains. Her substitute,
The very old muse, brings me nothing
But ideas for confusing official forms
Or for stamps commemorating
The lesser gods -- He who rules calligraphy;
She who dwells in corners; the god
Who was found lying fast asleep
When the Pleasure Quarter burnt down.
She says it would be cruel to make her,
Old as she is, carry a good idea up the stairs
In weather such as this. Besides,
She knows from experience that I
Can never really make the meters work
In smoothflowing Late Ugaritic
Or in the barren austerities of Linear B.
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