We see him in our toast,
in dry wall and potato chips,
in tea leaves and alleyways,
in water stains and, yes,
the occasional abduction scenario,
and he reminds us
in the produce section
amidst the bananas and the pears,
with a well-hell
and a pelvic thrust,
that we will always find a way
to resurrect the useless
and the ridiculous
in ourselves.
We wail him, fast,
and promise to tear down the stars
to refigure Orion in his image
for a just a moment returned,
tender and true,
that we believed in
without too much intimacy,
without too much dear cost,
as such are the visions
we collect in the necromancer’s hymnal,
our Weekly World newsprint
of prophecies and diet schemes,
too uncertain these days of ourselves
to raise anything more
than a hound dog.
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