Proportioned marble cons no one: These are earthquake zones. Artemis coolly draws her bow: The Lunar hips and global breasts No strain show, the stony skin no scar. Pray now and lift your neck hackles, Innocent. The Attic balance in these stones Belies the bellied Moon that humps High tides of salt and blood; Her hounds cry "Harvest!" In the dark and course her game To squealing thrashes in the olive park. Below her shrine the waste of scrap And talus stirs, the mantle plates groan And rub above the magma's roar.