I am fucking the Muse
and she acquiesces
with a cool gaze.
Timeline shifting communication across emergency channels.
The dip of her face signals
the refusal of shame.
Staccato breathing, aggressively.
Then riposte whispers,
an effusion of knowledge
in the rhythm of theoretical
ancestors.
The mutual climax and the
words of the creator thrust unto
etheric ripples
of Saturn seas.