Insufficiency

You, Apollo, swift on your course,
Wheels hot as your soul;
and Selene, held to the earth
by Atlas' hand -

Firmest in grip.
She would like to go to you,
and in your misery, embrace you -
but your fires are too high.

(If she danced on toes
she would burn.
Flight is an alien,
an alien, an alien.)

You are the healer, Paean,
but death chases you
faster than the flames
on your chariot.

If she could, she would
kill those little stars you consume -
if it would save you.
She would, she would.

(Hers would be
a pedestal at Delphi,
an oracle, a temple
in the valley of Phocis.)

Let her save you from your fires;
Let them write about you -
You and your demons,
You and Selene.