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The male Diana sets off again
With crossbow and quarrel
To hunt down--what?
A phantom sired by fantasies,
A mythical beastie that doesn't exist,
No matter how many swift spins and tumbles
The wire-caged bobbity-bobbles make,
No matter the draws of the lottery balls,
The esoteric reading of numbers
Like sphinxian turnings of the cards,
Like foul predictions rendered pleasant,
Like shrewd unveilings of the prophets:
A sideshow meant to stupefy.
While on his stool, the male Diana
Ponders whiskey in a glass,
Ponders prey, and lets it pass,
Quarantined as he is in the past.