Apollo is like the sun—
he puts cancers where he touches you
with those beam-bow and arrow-point limbs
and with his infinite Sminthian kisses, his
plague mice against your mouth.
god, the sun can’t stand your skin.
and as he remarks,
dirty between the earth and not of it,
beneath the sky and not from it,
he takes away that skin the same way
you might take away his garments
or the sunset color in his lips.