James Blevins
Helios
In the smoke of morning, she takes
off the sun’s clothes for me,
holds them up by two fingers,
before letting them fall upon
the earth.
Like the saddest animal,
I burrow in the warmth
of what’s balled up and left behind.
With grey in my beard,
I claw some prayers
in the stone cave of our night sky.
From the floor, I pray
for a good hunt, a sigh felt through the ages,
and for an archeologist
to one day read my scratches
by candlelight.
