Even as Shaman stroked her womb
   with the tip of his thaumaturgic wand,

     The tracks run side by side, like bathers’ prints
     in damp sand at ocean’s edge,

After three hundred years had I not grown
Content with my oblivion and found
Solace in small needs satisfied—one song‚

Preferring ‘resemblance to beauty,’ 
There were some who found more 
Truth in Philoktetes’ rotten legs