One of Ovid’s gods is drunk,
and stalking the city in peg-leg pants,
velour shirt open to the loins,
plastic Costellos askew on his nose.
He’s abracadabraing folks
into fabulous junk; turns two clubbers
into a lotus on a puddle,
smites a working girl into goat, teats
flourishing milk on the walk,
rearranges a beat cop’s handlebar
into the tusks of a boar.
The god gets dog-piled,
eventually, by everyone become everything.
Oaks and bird flocks,
pillars and livestock leap on his shoulders,
billowed with laughter.
They gnash their edges into his hide,
gouge, gore, maul, bite
the god’s vulcanized skin, demanding
until he is crushed to death and we are
what we are forever.