THE DEATH OFACTAEON

THE DEATH OFACTAEON

The junks of flesh torn from his consciousness Were stag-meat, he a stag to his great hounds. Was he a stag? Seeing her nakedness Did branching antlers grow, hooves paw the ground? Did she, while bathing in the pureness Of her chaste glade, distracted, look around To see those huge eyes, hard with lustfulness, Peer from between leaves? Did she understand

The nature of the anger she felt grow, Watching those sleek brown loins, that rising flesh? Did he feel stirring in his tasseled pouch Seeds of that dog-death? Blood was in his mouth. Did he, the game in his last instant, know This as the only satisfying chase?