Retired in winter bed and courting sleep
caressed by the warm rough kiss of blanket sheets,
drifting off, the other night,
into fantasy . . .
dreaming a luscious lovely . . .
loving the cuddly cozen . . .
cuddling the artful Grace . . .
Later, still in wakeful dream,
drifting into verse composing,
lyric comfort with Erato,
with musing sister Thalia . . .
comely aid in couplet fitting . . .
counting feet between the sheets . . .
conceiving rhymes like Muse . . . and fuse.
Like Shakespeare's bloody thane,
both fantasy and poetry,
remarkably and equally
murdered sleep and host,
but still it was the poetry
that got me up . . .
to write this down.
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