The night plumped up like a cushion. The words small, brittle, frail as eggshells. The sky filled with them.
It was a woman's face deep in the sea, self-constructed, as if one could make the moon out of flesh, bone, colour, reflection.
There was nothing there to touch. The sea was warm, the face gazed through it in its act of self-construction that involved gazing.
This was it. The muse-face. The construction. The self-made moon on its seabed. The astonishing in its perpetual process of construction.
This was the face that could give and consume, made out of myth and moonlight, making itself, turning itself into gaze.
And I have seen her, said the words. That gaze constructs itself and the compulsive act. And a cold shiver ran down him. And more words.
Make me a poet, said the words of the poem. Undermine me, said the gaze. Be discontent, said the muse. For ever, said the moon in the words.
These are old tropes, said the muse. But you must keep opening them. The poem lies beyond the opening, at the origin of words.
But muse, said the poem, if I am not the construction I desire to be I will die. Be sceptical, said the muse. Believe, said the poem.