Other Gods

Yes, there is a beast, and yes, you’ve felt the zephyrs

of his breath: exhalations that address, caress, undress:

the softer essences of night and dawn; what you believe

you’ll undergo, have undergone, have been below, above

and in: bestowed upon you, unconsidered and luxurious,

like the voluptuous effects of breezes brushing skin.

Change requires no psychic quake or spew or radical 

new view: no canyons need to be carved through,

no peaks need to erupt. Zephyr-breaths do not disrupt.

They breathe from what they are already – will succeed

in apprehending and abetting you affectionately as if you

were their beloved pet. You needn’t fret. Change need

not excruciate. Let its zephyr-breaths create, beget: sort

your predilections out, let go of doubt, to reconfigure you

a touch, not too much: enough so you are reassured

of getting absolutely everything – or knowing if you wanted

to, you could. Does this mean that the beast is very good?

You hope he is, but don’t know if you should. You feel

his breath. You’d bet that he’s a fact, but haven’t seen him

yet. Rumor is he doesn’t speak, he squeaks; doesn’t

creep, he flies. Maybe he’s a bat. Nothing wrong with that.

You hear he has arresting eyes. You surmise that if he’s

there – on sod, in air – he’d be a god you’d want. In that blunt

hope you let your faith rely. Other gods have left you dry.

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