that the world belongs to a stony-hearted goat-god—
how every time we act, we enact
his vileness; how this is no
ecstasy, just a bad labored joke.
Your body in spasm
longs to strip the flesh, but if you do
there will be nothing left but the busy
bone-clatter of tactics.
I will listen instead to the river,
cold as time, smelling of blood-brown leaves.
Love this poem! I’m not sure if it supposed to be an observation of religious folk who say that every deed we do that is not to their liking is the work of the devil, but that is how it reads to me. And in reading in that way, I choose to read the final stanza as I will let nature take its course and live my way. I really love the sound, the assonance in bone-clatter of tactics.