Prometheus at Caucasus
All night his skin stitches itself closed,
beneath his ribs the complicated mathematics
of regeneration begins, cell by cell
his liver rebuilds itself.
The stars remind of him of the theft,
flame tucked into fennel stalk,
the measured steps of the descent
the protracted passage down Olympus’ slope.
When you fashion a man from clay,
create muscle and bone between your fingers
feel the gentle thumping of his beating heart
pulsing in your palm, you owe him.
Tomorrow the sun will wash over jagged stone,
morning will bring a frenzy of talon and beak,
the strange sensation of a bird’s tongue
against his thumping heart.
Flayed against blood-soaked stone
he lifts his eyes to brilliant glare,
learns daily the blessing of day's end,
the merciful deliverance of darkness.