Zalmoxis

by Adam Walters

‘As if a man were author of himself / And knew no other kin’

And godhood in disfigured shame,

or scorn grown to legend?

At times you’d press it like a wound,

the bonds of love, naked, lachrymose.

Our circles rarely intersect, now,

seeking for the last embellishment

among raiments, vicissitudes, dwarf stars.