Castor and Pollux at Rest

There was no word to cradle them,
as it is when deity regulates thought to thing.

The ballads of those forgotten play
their games. Stories become blessings and burn

imagination into stone. Pinholes are spoken
into the vacuum’s black shroud. Insurmountable,

and inescapable. Brother
to brother breathlessly whispering. Their knuckles

clenched eternally, the two were groomed
to trick vines to twine through lattice,

and it was finished. A phrase
should have been uttered to save the glass before

they shattered the window, any rote prayer
to keep their sweet grins from being

plastered to night’s canvas
forever without thought.