Ichor

Apollo hummed your name and I asked how he knew you.

He’s an Erotes, dear girl,

he says as though I should’ve known from your eyes,

from the poetry you spoke,

from the wings in your spine.

 

 Ivy still tangles my skin, fresh roots in my bare veins.

They’ll seed and save and outlast.

Now centuries since your cold winged retreat,

you still hold me without touch,

an archer, indiscreet.

 

Without a knowingness nor a fault, I was undone.

And all with a voice of pearl,

I know not how to reclaim my loosened ground,

to walk a late leaving bridge,

to forget what I’ve found.

 

There’s a soft, fragile sagacity in knowing you.

You’ll wonder whose hand was asked.

The warm impermanence seeps in a new breeze,

your transient lullabies, 

my ephemeral pleas.

 

Apollo and I together in soft harmony,

Oh Pothos, Pothos, Pothos.

With our quiet voices and hushed shallow time,

with my tender diction,

we echo in windchimes.

 

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