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.