Muse

My muse has strong wings,
under the steep pine she sleeps.
At the hour of her waking
rising surely in the rain,
to my candle in the night.

She is the heart of words
that forever beats,
the conjunction of planets
in their endless rings,
and the secrets that they keep.

She brings memoirs of instants,
in the binding dust of time,
the measure of atoms,
the touch of two blind tigers
in a forest of desire.

I want her in my spine, liquid,
or sewn into my chest,
for to keep the song alive
that rolls me over Jordan.
But she goes to other muses,
subject of the Wheel as well.