Ode to Pan

Pan, Pan of hairy hock,
of loping gait and split shoe fall,
clatter and clack from rook to rock,
girdled by birds in a flurry of calls
which twist your nest-tested cum-curly flock
crisping of musk from brim to ball
and girding the ironwood root of your cock.

Pan, Pan, of fey-like wiles,
brown into black, your quick, stag-eyes shine,
and twist limb and leer to a shape that beguiles.
Uneasiness mounting, my will not quite mine,
given your inches, taken your miles,
you dance your advance, coming fast from behind
and assure and succor, all coyote smiles.

Pan, Pan, of rage and rut,
lay us bare with unbounded urge
that, howling, drives us from the gut,
like an incessant crescent scythe set to surge
to sever from soul, to take in the cut.
Laying all but that which is strong to be purged
leaving us free to glory and glut.

Pan, Pan, your bullroarers wheel,
your reedy winds whistle, ecstatic arms flung
in abandon to heaven, as you rock and reel.
Your dance— your deliverance, your syrinx has sung
to quicken the sinew, and prick nerves to feel.
Let the chill of the night and song fill our lungs.
Move us with music to exalt and to heal.