Looking at the ancient poets I am doubting
they saw gods

the way they say. Promiscuous as dogs sniffing
every scent to seize

what is past and passing, the ancient poets I am reading
could not care less

about their doom. They have room only for the quick
light of fickle love. I find it brave

the way they whip their own imaginings, excite them
with sexual felony. I love the way

they list the laws that they are breaking.
The gods are stand-ins

for all they say they do not say. They pretend
the gods themselves are making

light of all things sacred.

a sparrow mounting
the wind-blown foolscap