Hymn to Apollo
Illustrator: Hannah Grubbs
around a pool of fennel. Snake bellies
have already kissed it. Brightplague
tingles in your vein, fills
it with an ichor of tender malice.
Yesterday's mark dried and cracked
on the door.
Yes and we are trailing into the vacant past,
ribbons and all. I counted.
A train wails across the aorist divide, your lungs
inflate in the shape
of two islands paddling
between freshwater and brine.
Yes and if you do not want love
or even hope, then what?