Thank God for Winter and Summer
And for the Black Mountain. It's time to
Pull the rags from the sack
In the basement—the ritual
Outside is rough and aloof.
You forgive our absences
And we forgive your absences,
And dance around the abscesses,
Naked, satyrnine: in force.
Your siren call is all—Is all.
Your ancient Apocryphal Bible,
Your sacred daggers.
Thank God for Astrology.
O! the mystic stars. Set in
Their crystalline
Spheres,
With Apollionic dust
'Twixt lubricating vertices.
Their calm embrace and
Dulcid face were lent
The gold Sun's wanderlust,
And their frigid embrace,
'Twixt the thousand
Parsec distances apart
Take Heart!
There is Life,
In the scrub-brush undergrowth
Just past sight.
The Glowing Rod firmly
In-ground; all root,
And branching forelimb.
Immediately
An ancient thing.
And seated in it's vile ring
of glowing light, a glowing
moving thing takes flight.
