Epigraph
Where we go when he closes my eyes
and under what country;
some blue darkness, farther than hell;
a landscape of absence and root and stone.
There are no bodies here,
we dream shapeless dreams-
a constant, cloudless storm.
I’ll never wake up from him,
I have already traveled too far.
My mouth is the color of his mouth
and his arms are no longer his arms;
they’re mute as smoke, as my first white dress,
and the spear of his name, once ferocious,
dissolves on my tongue
like sugar, like birdsong, I whisper it:
Apollo.
