A Muse, A Purring And An Unwise Wish Poem by Richard Blanch

She is more than a mist drifting across,
More than something to seek sideways, aslant,
In the corner of an eye. But why, then, does
She so easily vanish? Why does a glance
Direct lose her, substance and shape? Why must
She, even stretched in pleasure, relaxed or taut,
Merry with the moment, (no, she is real, no dove
Fluttering from dreamtime, nothing planted
In the border of the vision-garden of
My mind) –why must she still evade? Does she taunt
Me with this fine ungraspability, frost
Me out when I am in? Does she refuse to grant
This last thing- to be there in more than body,
More than spirit, more than ecstasy, heart
Or soul? He eyes gracious, affable, say not,
Her happy satisfaction hides no dark
Intent. But her shining rebukes this cost-
Counting, shuns any need, to hold, to clasp,
Even in affection. – even to know. Lost
In her oneness, without knowing, dancing
Her wholeness, she would not understand. Love?
Yes. But what, as the moon slips graceful, slanting,
Into clouds, does it mean for her? Something above
Or beneath my seeing. I wonder. Can this be enough?