she –

this god, who lifts you up

through catcalls and pratfalls, must

once have been

a ghost, as she wanders

with springlike step, animated and

mischevious, a trickster

Spirit who means well but plays hard -- Can

you wait, there, in

your Cave, as night

Sets in, for just a glimpse of your

slim Goddess? -- She

will bellylaugh at you poets

posing as cadavers -- She has the taste

of oak on her lips,

basil on her tongue, her fire

is sheltered

and quicksilver, she will

exhaust your nerve and settle in to sleep

beside you, quietly calm

and unhurried . . .