He is More than a Hero
Obviously he’s with the gods, that one
Facing you, leaning over the festive table to feast
On that voice and that sweet spellbinding
Laughter of yours—that’s why the caged
Bird beats its wings against my breast
At the sight of you. Only silence makes sense
With my tongue a sacked temple—a quick
Burning cooks me from the inside out—
I’m blind; and my ears drone like shrine
Gongs hammer-struck. I’m pouring sweat,
Shaking in my seat; my skin’s pale as grass.
And, it seems, this close to death.
