when Apollo shot a bad load

when the sun's higher than the sky
and a massive liberating pulse
tongues your cheek's brown stubble
with dancing licks of constant fire,
replacing any trace of equine travel
with the kestrel screech of downed surprise:
here, you might forget your youth
and grin toothless at the dawn.

a less ceaseless flame might offer thrills:
a peck of dirt from blossoms long away
pushes through the bloody fields,
erupting where khaki is nourishment
and caravans amble from the Hindu Kush
to the plateaus of green-eyed wonder.
where arms are made from scratch
and shooting is normal and eternal:
you will eat this peck before you shrivel
and are shroud wrapped into kicked-up dust-

this is a form of salvation
that is lost on repeaters of chants
and builders of chanceries,
unrecognized by watchers of the circle
thumbing beads of Chinese jade
in the stifling market-place:
there must be some escape
from this bitter white dust.

these are only hazy dreams
encouraged by the silent crow
flapping wings against the black,
following a dusty course to finality
and oneness with the gods of imagination.

to burn you not this rush cannot,
when the sun's lower than the ground
and you beneath the ground still yearn:
sleep, my lovely, sleep.