We are the goats,
lovers of snow-capped mountains,
and though our syllables are spare
and many of you
take our station for low—
we grind our shaggy backs
in Selge’s ancient theater,
against the stone seats of the upper rows,
against each other,
and in the gaps between.
And we can pass
still salty scraps of lines
with which Euripides once made
good old—hence goat-like—
gods and goddesses speak
in fluent Greek.
So what does it matter
if dirt—or ignorance
of your present world—
clings to our coats?
We have one over you,
and it is not a question of size.
Even your Devil’s image,
even the Templars’ Baphomet,
you stole from us—
without knowing why.
Any of your women
could have told you—
they still know
how to judge
the point and weight
that give footing
when spanning
a giddy chasm
or a vertiginous crag,
when the legs go up.
Thus we keep these ruins
and cannot help but laugh
when your priests
speak of chastity and love
while drowning
in what Freud named das Es,
so he would not have to
call a spade a spade,
nor sink—too conscious—
deeper than the prophets
who lived here before.
We do not mind
if you—or they—
try to outrun
your anima or shade.
They cool us all the same.
We know something
of ancient caprid kinship:
hoof, horn, and even nail.
And if at times
we are naughty
or ill-mannered,
it is because we were born
to supply what is missing—
your manners,
your polished deceits.
And so if a god appears,
just let him—
he—or she?—
will find us ready!
And we, in turn,
will not cut him—
nor quarrel
with a pronoun,
nor ask for a feckless slack.
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