Apollo patches us up, keeps us running. I take out his pieces, clean them, oil them, and put them back. I sing as I polish his jaw.
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves
Are filled with my bright presence, and the air
Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.
He tightens my lyre’s wires. It hurts for a few days, the way good things hurt. We try on each others’ faces, each others’ various parts, that we might test them. I try on Aphrodite’s breast, Hermes’ feet, and we laugh.