where wood statues of the old gods stand at the meeting of
withered and withering in wind and water.
once proud, now they stare
on a still, cloudy day, at their forms
in silver mirror bay water.
a pilgrim comes from a land of car-flattened crows,
decomposed coyote bones
across black deserts
where whale vertebrae and tern
feathers bleach in midnight sun—
waste of giants’ feasts.
they brought the goddess’ corpse
down the hill in a bulldozer and
brought her to the boat
where we stood
in mourning blue.
hydrangeas, dried in february,
are like paper—
are paper on which i write my pagan songs.
the wise build their homes on stone—
but i’m a fool to glide along creeks,
cycling from temple to silent temple,
under leafless trees,
under condominium windows,
silent (sound of snowplows and trash trucks nearby)
follow overgrown train tracks to their origin
beyond the wolf-maw gate.
our deer king,
pierced five times and left to die
by the swamp where hollow televisions float.
wednesday at dawn,
i hung myself from the ash tree,
pierced in the side by my own spear.
nine hungry nights, upside down,
and on friday morning i had nine songs to sing.
friday mourning, we pushed the boat into the bay,
unmanned, but for the old ones,
and their treasures.
the wise, nor the warsome
can say who might receive