By Scott Sundvall
She does not know
the Promethean ache
the midnight collapse
of Hyperion
she calls at 3am
calls it the milk
thistle blues. She is
no hyacinth plucked
from Apollo’s bow
and sleeping in
thornberry bushes
next to temporary
gods. Or for him
who can whisper
“i carry snake-oil
baskets of fever
to cure it.” And
holding a tattered
parasol she thinks
this a broken
melody (for) who
wouldn’t? With skin
you can’t peel she eats
an orange. And scrubs.
waiting under the
pier, between the page:
a scrape without
a scratch. Junk is
the garbage you don’t
throw away.
