Et in Arcadia ego
What God grew wild in me
spirit could not contain.
His little hooves thrust free
to dance again; wild hooves,
gold-flecked, that labor finally
brought to light. Glorious,
I clutched him weeping, could
not bear the sight. His head
still slick, I gave him to a girl,
went raving through fields awhirl
with hyssop. Charmed, I go still
with much weeping, honeyed
tears. In the belly of this world
or on the heights, is there anything
more terrifying than he? Cold
light, keen hooves, stark purity.