After Apollo
       

So you woke to a cul-de-sac,
so what. Tell me how those stars
will never phosphoresce again.
At the turn of the year, I hid
clear quartz in a latched box,
superstitious preparation for
the springtime garden, a streak
of dirt on the chin, turning to sing
peonies are the pansies of poppies
or, Mimus polyglottos, or what
the poet said: burst like a star,
from the borders of itself. Hope is
the dog of the soul—patient, obedient,
as trained for circles as our lost seasons.

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Copyright © 2022 E.G. Cunningham All rights reserved
from Salt Hill
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission