From (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Fourth

Atlas Transform’d to a Mountain

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves;
Flying high on the wings 
of anxiety, aloft on nonaction
into another dawn
because when you flexed that scepter
in my face, I couldn’t help
but notice how sore
the fur on the back of my
hands.  The syntax stumbles: 
the imperious men, the illustrious
jitterbug humbly judged 
as the governor watches from behind
her barricades of hyacinth & lion skins.

Andromeda Rescu’d from the Sea Monster

The phosphor of the burning heart:
a pyre on which the night burns like 
hills alive with a million Airbnb’s
vacant doorways.  Perception
is askew &  you missed the cues
while knocking over the watermelon
bong.  Ever since you started getting your 
recipes from Vice, your life has been
foreshortened by visits 
from wayward maidens who linger long
on your lack of laurels, a canyon
where your participation trophies 
ought to be. A stone’s throw away;
I threw it all away.  You must be 
wandering why I called our merry
band here to see the very spot
where I found the stone that traveled 
the years in the pocket of 
the rat-chewed jacket & the maiden
vanished into the disco ball of time.

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from (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Fifth

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