Apollo ambles through the observatory

unheeded. He tilts a telescope, gazes,

lets it glow in the ambient light

of his fingertips before recoiling,

blinded by the sunrise. You will not find this

in myth books. He made sure of it.

This is the moment he shakes

free, cuts the new fires from his toes,

alights into the shade unburdened & redacted.

The gloxinia buds bend to his muted light still.

Come dawn, when the astronomer is dozing,

Apollo hurries, lapping at the dew

that evaporates with a glance, chasing owls and

bats that flap away beyond his reach.

Apollo sometimes steals the stellarium key,

prays that the metal nubs will not

dissolve in his palm. Sometimes, he prays

that his tanned ankles might lose their luster.

They won’t. Instead, he does what he can

to feel nocturnal leaves his fingerprints

on penciled constellations, sneaks armfuls

of astrolabes back through the morning

to his chariot. Holds Cassiopeia to sunlight for study

like a two-headed cat or an ancient coin.

As he thumbs through, diagrams slice his hands

open and red as a sunburn. Soon, the mortals will rise.

Soon, the God of the Light must return to his

new duties burying Helios, lending

brightness to each note of poetry, beaming

sweat across the land’s epidermis,

all the while yearning for night. Until then,

he will rattle the astrolabes for their clarion call.

Pace, relentless, towards the distant dim.

Revel in the paper stars on his knees.