She’d run to just this place deep in the woods
when night overcame her eyes and drowned even
Apollo’s footsteps  (so she stopped and stood
just here.  The wood closed into a coil of branches
around her and the running leaves stopped moving).

(And watched the moving stop above her head,
rumbling far away in the loud leaves)
(where patterned panic still reflected god’s
blind abandonment) (his long pursuit,
the uncle’s heavy tides, the celestial feet
flying to bear the messages, the voice—)

(where I stand now to look around, she stood)
(and it seemed she heard this sound (another breath)
moving through the fingers where no wind
makes life from leaves (or even leaves from hands)

(my fingers).  Nothing moves now in the sound
telling her whom she hears, whom she hears breathe,
only the woods, hearing her breath (my breath)
moving the leaves, away from Daphne’s hands.
 
 

Originally published in HELLAS