#apollo's lover

The days go on into the sun round to where we were begun Not behind cold sterile doors but in the haze of summer's whores And tomorrow we become the mothers we were birthed out from It's so long lingered this smoldering dust it's filled the gaps in our empty lust In one story houses we're soaked in sins hoping for tornado winds The days go on into the night kept hot by neon brothel lights We drown our minds in blood and shit stains our children should forget The river chokes on red and brown and the shreds of a prostitute's white lace gown The highway cracked and soaked with dirt carries dreams 'til they numb into hurt And when the clouds flood the ground we drown in the storm sewer by the playground

When I go down to dreaming it will be like tonight. Like snow and rain and wind and wet hair. Don’t you remember? Like dark nights in winter when all the world is falling down on your face and it makes you laugh. Don’t you know the scent of everything collapsing? In that forsaken hour, it will be cold, because the sun has stepped out for a minute and I have no money for oil in its place. / Are you not also poor? / When I go down to dreaming it will be because I miss you. Miss forgetting to tell you the important things and making small talk instead. Don’t you remember? Miss the way you stand very straight like a soldier, like your hair, like the spine of a book before it has been broken. Don’t you love the sound of books spilling out their guts? In dusty pages, I will go down seeking you, and I will not come up satisfied. / Are you not also hungry? / When I go down to dreaming I will be far away. Far away where we eat bread and water, food pure enough even for prisons, the cages of sinners like us. Don’t you remember? Far away where the fireplace is not yet lit because we must not spite the cold, which is stronger than us. Have you not also learned to keep its memory? In the cold, I will go down dreaming and in the morning I will forget I loved you, will never have loved you, will not be me. / I will not be me.

God smelled like candle smoke and knew everything, even the day we would die, but dying was make believe then. When Grandpa died we wanted to see his body, and Mommy let us, but she said “he’ll look different without his soul.” / God made it rain, and we whispered under our blankets, shivering softly. The sky fell like cotton drapes and whispered back “rest peacefully,” and we, trying to fill our empty minds with white washed hours, complied. / God spoke out of the dirt, and grass grew from it so high we couldn’t see over it, and we ran into it wanting to get lost. Over the dirt we built stick bridges for the ants. Sticks are small compared to trees, but so are ants, and so are we. / God said “Love, and I will never leave you,” but crying out anguished for our people’s sakes, we couldn’t be bothered to love.

into perfect squares