Hymn to Phoebus Apollo
Despair, your alloy laurel
twines metal roots
even thru the blighted
ground, the sleeping
body grieves for you,
as do the things that go
white & wan in caves,
whose feelers make
their own cold suns,
who know it is the world
who has turned away,
the way a body turns
away. The sacrifices
laugh thru their opened
throats: You are prince
of withering things,
no proof against
the coy goon in the lobby
or the ones whose
arms are as shadows
are.
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