Difficult, but not to be confused with wound, or mark, or the sharp twist in the road ahead. If one said curve, there might be some tension lost: how the headlights can nearly penetrate the opacity of this storm; how the clouds linger and sway, as if unswept. Bayer never had the chance to name this road. He might have called it first among equals, or last. All in Greek, of course. He may have known that when you mention twins, whether in constellations or in the hollow hull of a black ship, Castor always precedes.
Bollocks to Pollux. Everyone pays attention to his brother: the horseman, the athlete. Everyone pays attention to his sister: the whore, the lacrimae. When someone inevitably asks, they say half-immortal, thank you. Which is to say not entirely divine and not entirely held in the black dirt, the long banks, the cut corn that lie like spent sheaths and scabbards.
What happens to an animal when it's kept in complete darkness? Forget this face. Forget your place, brother. Forget the lance of each lament; the tortuosity of finger felt walls. Movement requires mass, then weight, then faith in guided closure of object from position to place. In the beginning, a hand is held above the head. It rests in anticipation of arc. Its aim always just beyond whatever it seeks to destroy.