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I read we can feel our Muses in our bodies. In brains, hearts, thyroids? Spleens, livers, adenoids? My Muse dwells in a layer of dermis. "I've got you under my skin," I sing, and she takes to wing in earnest. Melpomene, on bended knee, I beg you return and refract me. Even when you're in my skin, I promise I'll not scratch thee. If your Muse resides inside your feet, lies a spondee in your sole? A trochee in your toe? Ah, the pitter-patter of feated meter.
"Poetic Medicine" by John Fox, 1997.
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