The lithe muse rises from his crotch,
right finger and delicate thumb
poised where I watch
from his shaft's hidden head,
her left foot rising from his thigh
as from a bath,
head-to-head, their shared wreathlike hair
like Venus shed
or cut from Zeus to be thrown free
until the spinning lines make me see
her large left hand is his also,
she his shoulder
by that face—least finished,
blinded and turned inward—
those pert, small breasts
the clock's top, where he's dropped:
that giant right hand that's covered
the beard—the mouth—
vomiting and making. What lifts
his muse from the stone scrotal sack
or earth-womb opening between
his knees—earth-wounded—wracked by lack
and surfeit, stone lactary-sheen?
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