The Third Muse
bluffs her way into the basement apartment on Whitman's trumpet line,
rifles manuscripts, listens for herself in the room.The Muse has come specifically to this address and is not disappointed:
Shakespeare's 18th sonnet drones from a tape, recorded by the author- who lies prone on the orange shag rug, his forehead
battered with red peonies.The Muse pries at his heart, spills it out like a drawer
and pants in the emptiness. Looks around. Hears that monotone.She shivers at 'rough winds' and begins to weep, beats this man with her braids
and confesses her ugliness, her running sores - spitting as she rants.The poet is ecstatic, having dreamt of this visit for weeks.
He takes Erato's face, dribbling and wild, between his handsand kisses her gently as if she were a runaway teenager.