ON SHAME

After the funeral of the first man whod shamed me,

which I did not attend, and in preparation for those deaths still to come,
I decided I must go to the countryside and meet finally with Shame,
sly goatherd with the heels for hands, pastoral of the wet shades.
He wore a dirty tunic and carried a staff, which he was in the habit
of knocking about his feet like a blind man. When I spoke to him,
he bleated pathetically, cowering and cursing his lineage,
the gods. He hung his head and horns and we went in procession,
he behind and I in the lead, as if we were strangers.
He led me to the same place Id kidnapped myself away to as a child,
splendor of ravine and vine, crushed berry, wounded animal,
all of nature in her full sex, world in which to live out my greenest fantasies.
On a hillside he gathered my hands in his, rash bouquet,
and looked into my eyes with the eyes of father, brother, uncle, priest.