Men and Monsters

I walk around the temple
to the entrance,
looking at simple
columns and friezes
decorated with men and monsters.

A midget rides a dragon
and throws his shell-like palms
over the dragon's ears
to make him less afraid
of a howling rough-scaled hound
with seven heads,
dripping red poison around
her feathered paws.

The broad-eared twin brothers,
armed with an axe and a saw,
attack a lurid serpent
stretched all the way to the temple door.
So many strikes,
but the serpent lives on
rolling his chiselled eyes
and chewing a large moon.

I follow the serpent's tail
and reach the door:
inside all is dark and cool,
not like before –

no monsters and no men,
no munched moon:

in front of a young goddess
a wax-ridged candle burns,
with its liquid tongue
gilding her braids
that run down
her quiet smiling face
toward her clean upright breasts.

I leave a flower and an apple
at her bare feet
and kiss her narrow toe-ring
made of streaky lazurite,

and then dash out
and climb the hissing stairs
to help the twin brothers
or perhaps the serpent.