Poetry

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.