The virgin stirs
In Apollo's dust
Scattered across the breadth
Of that gloaming stripe
Indigo, russet, copper and gold;
I'm their youth divine
By reckoning of men eternal, old.
Celeste, strung out
Among the eaves
Her hand soft through willow and oak
Brittle gold green leaves
Plucked by ghostly fickle fingers;
Like little ships sinking
Across the deepening horizon.
Mirror still waters
Vanity of stars
Collect the wrecks of little oak ships
Where they drift
In my fire's promethean flicker-
The prophecy of tea
Says she's not looking down on me.
Apollo's dark descent
Beneath earthen crest
Speaks of bodies drifting apart;
Every warm sun
Someone else's cold silver star -
Immortal constellations
Move in patterns as mortal hearts.
The virgin stirs
In Apollo's dust
How distant they now seem to be
Across the seraph's sea
Parted by departed day and memorial night,
Yet still they unite
If only by glimpse of familiar, distant light.
