Peter Burzynski 

 

     

 

     

      Portrait d'un Faune

 

                                                                       

 

Hooves clack metropolitan

No home for horns, heavy

matted legs.  The lute, the lyre

 

dulled by sirens, the heft

of the sewer air hissing dry,

ambient crooning.  Little

 

goat-like spears break scalp

like antennae picking up

scrambled signals from God-

 

knows-where Italy.  Haven’t

been there? No more wine.

You sure aren’t going to help. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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