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