Afternoon of a Faun

Imagine if one is unmasked: A forest with
dream-lidded eyes appears. Leaves may waver
in a place, but groups of clustered foliage entwine
around a body that is neither yours or mine.

The faun awakes to find human hand gone.
The skyscrapers shift as sharp-finger
edges turn into torsos and hairy flesh parts, automobiles
into layers of liquid - transparent sheets of sound
as lush as cranberries in ponds.

Are his eyes the same as those that beheld mountains
in utter darkness and kissed nude heaven
on a Shakespearean diet?
Is the sound precise enough for those ears
Vulcan that signal
goddesses spitting stars?

If he finds himself with a sorry penis
between his thighs which is
excited by a trilling cricket, is he the same
as he who laughed himself out of ejaculation?

The faun has no words to communicate the fire
sharply burning within. Only the wait is present and he,
at this moment, is absorbed in this thought.