by Brigit Pegeen Kelly

    Now I rest my head on the satyr's carved chest，

    The hollow where the heart would have been， if sandstone

    Had a heart， if a headless goat man could have a heart.

    His neck rises to a dull point， points upward

    To something long gone， elusive， and at his feet

    The small flowers swarm， earnest and sweet， a clamor

    Of white， a clamor of blue， and black the sweating soil

    They breed in……If I sit without moving， how quickly

    Things change， birds turning tricks in the trees，

    Colorless birds and those with color， the wind fingering

    The twigs， and the furred creatures doing whatever

    Furred creatures do. So， and so.  There is the smell of fruit

    And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird

    Crying， and the sound of water that does not move……

    If I pick the dead iris？  If I wave it above me

    Like a flag， a blazoned flag？  My fanfare？ Little fare

    with which I buy my way， making things brave？ The way

    Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone，

    And there they are： the armies of pale creatures who

    Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.