goat gods atop remote rocks

this is your village now


ghostsmoke from turf fires blows

down the taciturn farmer’s


chimney, choking his dream

the moss is ochre, the May grass


green enough to make eyes ache

even your horns’ arc hurts


leaves of blooming hawthorn hush

children who haunt this ruin, running


the rain-slick chevaux-de-frise

laughter spilled over tumbledown karst


what good is the past to goats, to

men who don’t last, whose lust


wasn’t enough, whose walls fall 

from wind and wind plus time