The Hamadryad’s breasts
and nipples were
bark-brown, like her
insides drying in the sun.
Turning away, he mused
on the difficulty
of representing the
divine in time.
He already knew that
the Roman emperor
(his soldiers urinating
in the rain),
forcing his entry into
the temple,
would find
nothing.
Which was logical:
the inexplicable is nothing
(not viceversa).
What would ensue was the
frantic stroking
of the fish’s belly
with dirty fingers.