To this general melee of pavements, moats
And frescoed walls, I present: goats!

Several gold goats atop this grand
Escarpment, baa-baa-ing to beat the band.

Their grins…such malignant grins.
Yes, this is how it begins.

Of chief concern, though, are those birds:
They’re the smart ones, the (dirty word)s,

The cheats. They suggest strange powers.
Their sun is no more a sun than ours,

But to watch them wheel, shift like leaves,
Like cloth…a boy could believe their beliefs.

Oh, and you—you longed so long for a throat,
Robert, and some small island too remote

For cables, for birdcalls, for words. Myths.

But some goats, those birds—it’s all you’re left with.

Home > Spring/Summer 2006 Index