Melpomene lost her sandal in the mud
Terpsichore stubbed her toe
Every finger snaps and defends
That's what they said in the forecast
And the urine-colored past is gone
The apparent action was only for show
As Clio cartwheels into our barn
How clean must your hands be to throw a rock?
When it is little the work is pure
On
Tire wave and wrap so much in the heat
And so too the telephone cords, winding, flapping
"Or yourselves abundant." I hope this means me
And Calliope says, "the work is in the doing"
Something will hit her in the divinity so right
The hills sing and break at her terrible delight
