Aestas may well dance her dance
Auxo joining the choreography
And Damia, too,
And all leave panting those in their audience
And sticky wet with salty fluid
But their performances are of gentler kind than
Has taken up residence in the bleached-white hills
Where brown columns crookedly rise and
Their hangings fade

No stola for her who performs now
No diaphanous gown of clinging gossamer
No translucent tulle that lets things show through
Which many eyes long to see
No organza that covers but refuses to conceal
Oh, no
If she is clad in anything
If anything stands between her and the eye
It is cracking leather
The only thing to match the ways in which
She beats upon the brows and bodies of
Those assembled in her august presence
Early though they might well be

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