Invocation
By Steven Greyheart
he who is the bright-shining leader of men,
looser of arrows into fleshy moral wavering:
penetrate what is lacking, O radiant god,
fill the whole.dear-wise healer of the archipelago,
mender of carnage and miasma:
subsume this downtrodden flock, our beloved,
warm the weary-eyed.brave wielder of rare Hephaestean silver,
loyal serpent-slayer of Delphi:
fell the enemies of Promethean will,
give strength.collector of the nine, loud master of strings,
he who thanklessly inspires the feeble attempts of man:
speak our awe into rapture, O weaver of words,
shape creation.
some internal tell yells:
“throw a football!”my desk splits in two, and words
devolve into slippery stupidity.
two barely-lit candles drip white wax
down splintered edges of defeat.but my mouth, at once, is closed and open—
I am the limp shadow-dweller.
I am the humble sun-seeker.
I arch my fingers toward the ceiling.
Apollo Phoebus!
Apollo Delian!
Apollo Pythian!
Apollo Musagetes!
through curtains the room murmurs dim.
dusty records below socks sang more loudly before,
but some sun still is now piquing.“keep calling out.”
Apollo!
am I?