Ivy
tonight, they reach through their own backs to grab a swat
of backwood clouds & broken radicals.
tonight, they blink slow into innocent funerals.
mummies of intel. the
kiwis become anesthesia
& the notes—scalpels:
every now & then they poke
the side of their hearts
that held the alphabet—the bet—the g—
the crip walk away,
& the “c” clefts the left index finger
like the moon
.mimesis. many miss the kinship
of Philotes & Apollo. one night, the two went hunting
on the road for Blonde tunes
& gold
fish. Philotes: wading in the water. Apollo?
humming. Apollo,
leaning against Philotes, hummed fussedly,
frustratedly, over Philotes’ drowning body. truth is,
his genius-love was rippling from his chest. truth is,
she was scubing for love notes.
dead, nonetheless.
still, goddess of affection.
still, stitches in all you bitches’ broken hurts