At Last Apollo Becomes Marsyas

He has cinched the leather belt
around his ankles. He dangles,

upside down, gravity’s
new torque popping through his joints.

He swings from his branch.
The sky wobbles.

Vinegary yellow warblers
bubble among dogwood flowers,

unhurt, like words about pain,
the knife a curt silver tongue

flashing back at the polished day. 

He opens the skin at his right ankle
and a red grief sings past.

The afternoon stretches long
as the world steps near,

each thing panting to be said.
Then the left ankle, and

his scream writes
the cleansing sun into the sky.