I REFUSE to name the gods, because they have no
name.
I refuse to
describe the gods, because they have no form nor
shape nor
substance.
Ah, but the simple ask for images!
Then for a time at least, they
must do without.
But all the time I see the gods:
the man who is moving the tall
white corn,
suddenly, it curves, as it yields, the white wheat
and sinks down with a swift
rustle, and a strange, falling flatness,
ah! the gods, the swaying body
of god!
ah the
fallen stillness of god, autumnus, and it is only July
the pale-gold flesh of Priapus
dropping asleep.