Satyr

Each morning I stand like a god
and straighten the sheets.
My antlers, crashing, interlock
with a choir of beasts,
the white roof coats my belly
and the walls curl
going inside me, their patterns
laughing from my eyes.
My thumb, like a black axe,
niggles at the cataract
where the gasping love
falls into the cup of red,
and the dam comes down,
the gaptoothed king of morning.
I find a fingertip grip
on the original seam
and with a screaming rip
fling my dazzling pelt
away from bones, to the sea's end.