It is not the Muse br to whom I write, but you. br br Let your imagination run wild, br forget the here and now. br br Watching you dance br makes me smile. br br Afternoon brings a lull, br a stolen moment. br br A jumble of legs, br we are starfish! br br A bath to sooth your ache, br a plume wafts from warmth to warmth. br br I set out to touch the moon, br it looks so near. br br Poetry is separated from nothing br by a thought.br br Hanque O . . .