Because the Muse demands

(in my best Igor voice) "Yes, master."

So, like I said, I've been thinking about poetry, and I ride in to work early, and LBB had these wonderful pictures of smoke on the water, here's some lines that came flying out of the blue. The muse demands they be posted. Here it is.

Down below the grindylow
swim though twilight dreams
the washer women prepare their folded hair
and tend to your shroud's seams.

It's too sing-songy for me. I've studied poetry. I love Ferlinghetti. But there it is.

The muse has been proflic today, once I wrote those lines down. So here's to major breaks after I post this (and hopefully my typing will get better, it's been going downhill all day).