I think there's another verse somewhere about on my desk. In time. Been a while, but then again, there's been a thesis. Being a muse is a bitch of a job. One of a matching pair. Poems or muses, take your pick.

Muse II: Hymn to her (Lullaby for my unborn child)

I will never know your face

That sweet perfection

Of things newly-made

Seashell fingernails, white-striped pink, translucent

Washed out of me on a salty tide

Fingers clasping mine, a Lilliputian marvel

You are half-formed, ever unknown, beyond my reach

Only words, ghostly semaphores

Breathed out, set down

Circumscribe the long silences

No cries of yours will break

The music of your voice

Plays only in waking dreams

That was no virgin birth

You were forced out

Panting and straining

To meet your maker

Who languishes bloodied, exhausted

Eviscerated.

What shall I call you, when I call you out to you?

How will I name you?

Miracle-child, three from two

Endless mystery, love-wrought,

Delivered, pain-making,

Flesh made word.