Borne in a surf that drops her head
back—to one of the satyr’s horns
the Bacchante has raised an arm
to assure herself that the crossbreed
has up, indeed, his goatish points
that prove power and sound prowess.
Are this power, standing prowess, strange
and taunting spurs of pointy, piercing barbs
some new poetry of body and soul at once
which, in a fit of madness, burlesquing gods
bestowed on the hybrid, shaggy brute to knead
the dark that disdains innocence of discrete love?
And yet her own poetic pose is the able archeress’
who has kneeled and bowed to let her arrows fly.
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