Inside a cave, enthroned on ivory,
The ancient Sybil sighs, and signs, shifting
Her bony buttocks, while inhaling, deeply,
A mix of sweet Arabic incense and

Volcanic fumes. Her nostrils flare. She moans.
Torches flicker. The usual convulsions
Begin. Claws clutching at her shriveled breasts,
The spirit moves upon her and the words—

The gibberish she has muttered forever
As prophecy—spills forth as poetry
For the first time. Apollo really stands
Before her dais now: a smiling youth—

A golden shaft of sunlight in the gloom.
Clothed in clouds, the god has come to touch
Tired eyes with genuine visions today.
He stretches out his hand and they explode.