Worshipping at the Shrine of Artemis, the Hunter

You kneel in the underbrush

           clutching a knife in one hand,

antler in the other,

           sawing,

blistering away in the frosted

           throat of winter,

mould-green algae leaping up the trees.

God is felt

in warm things,

the altar of his sparkling eye

cool as a creek.

In him, majesty transfers

in the blood.

It is the art of assaulting Atlas. All there is to it

is the sound,

crunching bone and the lowing caught

in the key of d minor

           and mild terror.

The borrowed bleating adds weight

           to your bulk,

you walk

           light-footed.

the spirit moves swift

as a deer.