the black ticking clock hands
move about, making a galaxy
of thousands of gyres—step cones
led by the moon—which make us know

that the earth moves. Apollo has rigged
his chariot to keep the sun whirling about
in the day. the clouds are hurdles,
impeding his ride. he told us stories

of his rotating lovers; he sand of arrows
and told us that he would turn us into heal-alls
so we can sprout together, birthing buds
to keep his melodies alive throughout the Grecian plains.

the hours illuminate his face and elongates his verse
while he strums his lyre—each note
a dept to his Father of Time, a plea and prayer
written in broken scribbles on lamb's skin.

here the drums beat like very second hand
and the rhythms keep the spirals
around and about—this is where
nations breed, where love demands inception from Apollo.

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