Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

The Satyr’s Heart

Now I rest my head on the satyr's caved 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? No, that is not it. Uncovering what is brave. The way Now I bend over and with my

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