Éloa

Apollo’s Lyre

You come in sevens and tens leaving  

me on fours, all accounted for and attuned 

Hieroglyphic fingers, and that string  

is a yolk stretching my limbs on crossbars 

The space in between is my heaven 

laurels and wreaths, and you, my god 

Posted

in

by

Éloa

Tags:

,

Comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

Gravatar
WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out /  Change )

Cancel

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: