Helios

In the smoke of morning, she takes

off the sun’s clothes for me,

holds them up by two fingers,

before letting them fall upon

the earth.

 

Like the saddest animal,

I burrow in the warmth

of what’s balled up and left behind.

 

With grey in my beard,

I claw some prayers

in the stone cave of our night sky.

 

From the floor, I pray

for a good hunt, a sigh felt through the ages,

and for an archeologist

to one day read my scratches

by candlelight.

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