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5

His scalpel gently slices open the atrium
to access its recesses and preview
scenes stolen from a life while the heart was still.
What were you thinking of, Actaeon?

Then he must stitch with the tiniest stitches,
the delicate fabric of the heart,
the forest, les baigneuses,
as on the brocade of another of your dresses,

queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
a fair thought in a green shade,
dappled green by the water's edge.

The dogs tug ceaselessly at the sled
carrying the quarry that has just been shot
then tear at the carcass strung out on their lines in the ice.