Apollo’s Son

I

            Exists only in the swallowtail,
            of my bruised sternum.
            in purple and black
            HE reminds me that I must remain.

II

A summer dusk flyballs
            cracking through sky
            the firework
            of a childhood dream
            to be blue:
            out of breath and breaking

            anew to strum the sinews
            of my lyre,
            HE teases the thought
            of fire.

III

           at my feet to burn,
            to destroy,
            the beach can only
            ember glass
            and like plastic trash
            HE leaves

            small
            but nevertheless

aflame