© 2021 Kaye Boesme[^1] [![[80x15.png]]](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/) Download: [[Boesme 2021.pdf | pdf]] &nbsp Apollon who holds the steep cliffs, unfathomable, whose agalma is the edge of the event horizon at which light dissipates out, known and unknowable, an edge yet permeable, I pray to you, O beacon, O rainer of arrows whose bow sings, O God whose nectar is pulsar-scream gusts colliding within and without us. I pray to you, O Apollon of the field, who sings out the tapestry woven by Persephone in her hidden cave, serpentine God ever out of sight, the omphalos a weight binding all down against the navel of Ge. How to hymn you, O God, when place becomes estranged from itself, unplaced, without creating sacred topographies of sound and echo, above all deep silence, lightlessness yet humming with quantum noise — as if we have followed Daphne deep into the thickets of redshift where the past lies frozen as future, postcognition an oracle of depth, the laurel we reach out to touch dissipating on the river of inky darkness, the steep cliff of photons beyond it yet desiring the future, looking back. If we trace you to the high root, time collapses into your eternity, all chords sung in union together, and beyond that is all hum and note, your retinue a wave of everything moving in place, vibrating sweet, yet unfathomable as bowshock, this drum of words within my mouth, this ground beneath my feet falsely still. I have found the eversmooth cliffs. I have heard the black hole’s hollow incantations beyond its sharp boundary. May my words bear flight to you, touching you with praise, O God. ## Note [^1]: Originally in Boesme, Kaye, ACTS OF SPEECH. New Haven, Aigletos Press, 2020.