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.

Joe Wrobel