The love goddess, alas, grows failer,
She still has her devootes
But their hearts are not whole.
They follow young boys
From the corners of their eyes.
They become embarrassed
By their residual myths.
Odd cults crop up, involving midgets,
Partial castration, dismemberment of children
The goddess wrings her hands; they think it vanity
And it is, partly.
Sometimes, in her precincts
Young men bow curly heads.
She sends them packing
Indulgently, with blown kisses.
There are those who pray endlessly,
Stretched full-length with their eyes slut,
Imploring her, "Mother!"
She taps her toe at these. A wise goddess
Knows her own children.
On occasion, her head raises
Almost expectantly: a man steps forward.
She takes one step forward,
They exchange wistful glances.
He is only passing.
When he comes to the place
Of no destination
He takes glass after glass
In her own mirror the image wavers.
She turns her face from the smokeless brazier.
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