Fiddling through the fissures,
the bifurcation a foundary of stone,
we roam up crags and rocks,
clinging like bats by bone.
We gorge on leafy moss,
on tufts of spartan grass.
We cannot help but gloss
how we navigate the pass.
Mother Goat is caring
but she knows to have no hope:
up here there's no knowing;
we live by noose and rope.
And if you are not careful,
the fall will be so great
that Pan will not be playful
and you will not be saved.
I bleat, blow on my ram horn,
the gully deep as stomach's bottom:
chewed cud will come your form,
but kids forget - and are forgotten.
At the bottom of the shaft
two bodies: forms that I have known.
At the bottom, my two calves:
one bloated, one blown.
No comments:
Post a Comment