The centaur wants his hairy haunches
kissed. And a girl's beautiful lips
approach. Hesitate. The black flies
circling. Out of one log story
many short ones. She closes
her eyes. She kisses.
No one knows the past through the garden
that leads to the wild world. Old women
point—Here! here!—but if they knew
they'd be gone. They've squandered their weight
in breadcrumbs to the big-mouthed crows.
Tiny graves, and this month's deluge
of slim crosses. Bandages soaked in vinegar
for our foreheads. A talk of the centaur's
pure trickery. Not to love the girl, but to ride
off with her. The way out of the garden
was always up. Her white petticoats wrap him,
her gown a trough through the wind.
Vanished. Gone from us as so long
predicted. No one stops the executioner/
We can't deny we were told.