in memory of the muse
that remembered veiled dancer remains nameless in memory, though i can recall her musk and for that matter the taste (later) between her thighs...
odd: it was as if she just momentarily appeared and then vanished to never-was: but then
both in youth and age love (even for oneself) is maybe just that: never-was ------ :for the record: I've never seen a veiled dancer in real life and I do love people. So if there's a gentle reader peering over my shoulder--I'd been musing over a writer--Delany--who's forsworn, apparently, fictional writing--as has (for sure, he says) Stableford. I regard both as great losses. And the poem's not merely fictive, as should now be apparent.
Dedicated to Samuel Delany and Brian Stableford (duh)
Glenn
9:57:07 AM
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