We Innocents, Maidens, and Virgin Lads Waiting for the Minotaur
More than slightly puzzled in a distant way
By artefacts from long-gone cultures, we
React as people always do when they can’t say
Exactly what the ancients then could see
In their religions and their mysteries.
Their dogs with three heads or a scalp with snakes
Must come from monstrous arcane histories
Beyond our brains—except the black depth lakes
Inside them. There the fangs of monsters plumb
Anxieties. We fear that we’ll say yes.
We know the nightmares and the horns that numb.
We don’t need priests or prophets. We can guess
Too easily. The primal dreams and prayers
Are all too clear to us. They are our snares.
