The Satyr Proffered

grapes, rough-touched and round, stone-

carved, to be squeezed into the fundaments

of rock wine. She imagines it would be cold,

not sought for its smoothness,

and likely full of grit

if not refined with care.

The satyr laughs carelessly

for one caught in stone.

The cracked edges of his mouth spill grit

as he leers after the loss of his fundaments

which fall along the smooth,

cold

torso plane, exhibiting immaculate coolness

at this literal loss of face. Carefully,

she strokes his head, as if smoothing

the fetlocks handcrafted from stone.

Her affection is unforced, a fundamental

attraction to those beautiful, gritty

things made lovely by decay, their gritted

teeth so much more interesting than the art gallery’s cold

geometrics, which appear fundamental

but fail to consider the careless

chaos spinning at the stone

center of all smooth

creations. And those grapes! Their unsmooth

surface mirrors the messy passion flushing the grit-

dusted cheek, the hideous mouth of crumbling stone.

What heat from the Dionysian’s cold,

brittle fruit! The obliteration of all care

if she could only perform the fundamental

act of eating. She thinks about wilderness, fun, mental

liberation, dancing her soles smooth,

pleasure as pervasive as care

is now, her feet a frenzied blur on the gritty

forest floor, shaking and pummeling out the cold

as she prances over starlit stones.

She does not care who sees her, as she grips the stone

grapes, feels the smooth, crumbling cold

enter her hand, fingers embracing a thing more fundamental than earth, bone, grit.