Not a god, my god.

July 2016.

et in arcadia, ego

and what of it? let death

take us from our haunted sleep:

we already gossip with ghosts.

if goat-footed pan is dead,

why should we aim for less?

he murmurs into our dreams:

“one is only never in the golden age.”

if that is how these things are,

then he must not have loved

selene the way i love you.

and yet, you take his leaf—

seducing the moon with secrets,

wrapped in a snowy bribe of wool.

you drew me out of the sky

disguised in a golden fleece

to keep me warm through winter.

this space is colder than your hands.

you would make a sacrifice

of your sheepskin to me, love

me through death to divine.

beneath your woolen coat, truth.

not a sheep: a shepherd.

not a shepherd: a godhead.

oh, my god. oh my god. yes.

we are in our golden age

and we both know it, golden-

lipped and honey-tongued

prosperous until death parts us.