Apollo red crashing wall cloud
Swim
Under his eyelids mingle in
With my hair
Bind him so he doesn’t know
If it’s Monday or Friday and
Which century whether he has
Read or seen Ovid if I am
His lug his wife
Or just a cloud-animal
Clear across the sky
Notes on this poem
This poem appeared with incorrect formatting in ‘Secret Agents of Sense’ .
The version presented here is correct.
