My Muse

I have a Muse
written in flesh and bone.

No ethereal faery
or luxurious goddess:

He's a flash of sinew and steel
closing mouth fit only for gossip,
uncapping pen, ink pulsing,
swift flowing as life-blood.

No pale raven-haired psychopomp
or merry satryr pied-piper:

He's a drop of amber passage to sky,
luminous mortal Apollo,
whom I surprised in darkling light
illuminating forbidden intimacy.

I sketch him over and over,
for seven mythic years,
honing craft for penance
of violating holy taboo.