Lost in the forest somewhere,
Just lost enough to be glimpsed
Now and then at a distance, wanders
A flawlessly mythical creature,
The last perfectly normal life,
Horn growing out of its head.
It's annoying really. A beast
Should have the decency to go
Into proper hiding if it doesn't exist.
All the nasty, stained, wasting,
Rutting, confused, and ravenous
Trunks and backbones of the woods,
Mottled with chancres
Veiled in the leaves, must
Pretend we had a choice
To be these undignified, bitten
Fruits dropped to the ground.
Finger the serpent, the woman,
The man, the maker of the man,
The tree that sprouted us out
To manipulate the bees, whatever.
It's still got to be that satin-sided
Gold-chokered ungulate of genius
Prancing in the shadowy tapestry
That haunts all our living and dying
Mistakes with its snowy sinews,
The ideally real and therefore not.