A Pan-horned goat
Lifts up the weird
Triangle of his face.
His neat packed teeth
An octave of tiny notes beneath
The elegant curving slits of his wet nose.
His beard’s a puff
Of thinly curling smoke;
His arcane eyes are eloquent as Satan,
Mournful as King Lear.
It seems he’s been rooted to this place
A thousand years;
His neck fur is a Spanish grandee’s ruff.