Issue 150, Spring 1999
The golden person curled up on my doormat.
Using her mink coat as a blanket,
Blondly asleep, a smile on her face, was my houseguest
The Goat who couldn’t get her set of keys to work, so blithely
Bedded down to wait in the apartment outside hall.
A natural animal elegance physically
Released a winged ethereal exuberance.
Pulling g’s, then weightlessness, the charm of the divine.
Luxuriously asleep in front of the front door like a dog.
Dear polymorphous goddess who past sixty
Could still instantly climb a tree.
But couldn’t get the metal key
To turn in any residence
In London or New York or Calabria or Greece or Florence.
Always climbing anything (why
Someone had dubbed her The Goat when she was young).
Climbing everywhere in a conversation.
Up the Nile, up the World Trade Center twin towers.
Upbeat, up late, up at dawn, up for anything.
Up the ladder to the bells.
A goat saint lived ravishingly on a rock.
Surrounded by light, dressed in a simple frock.
The last great puritan esthete