Being that Pantheon that was, we still

break our hearts to serve them (who know no pain

but live us, living them), leaping to spill

our frail blood in that armored, careless train.

And I would not counter the pain you wear,

the hair-shirt hidden like a covert shame

under the poised gesture and braver share

of self that figure and flesh out your name.

They do not kill us if we give them room

to dance the whole coil through toward saving grief,

though heart beat outrage on a frantic drum

or mind lose all innocence of belief.

Nor can we murder them, even the girl

of silver-arrowed death who turns to doe

when hunters on the moon-dark mountain skirl

their horns, and her footprints gleam there like snow.