Gods In Flux

The passing on
Of simple

In gods and men,

Where we place
Our trust.

What is the
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In a world
Still being

Passing on
Our virtues
In a world

We can’t critique.

These gods
And men
Of changing times

Lie waiting
In the flux.


Still Spinning


This is yet the ruined land
When all else
Has come and gone.

‘Though on the precipice,
‘Though at the boundary,

With all the build-up
Building next door,

This is the planting ground,
Growing smaller,
As did the herds,

As did the roaming
In his day of passing.

So on we go,
From this into that.

From planter’s field
To potter’s ground,
Grounding out the change.

Will the planted
Be made to uproot?
What will feed the leaves?

In every turning,
Every passing away,
Every lament

Is issued forth

For the passing
And the turning
Of the gyres, still spinning.



Full of the hosts of every season
And taken in measure
From the overflowing coffers,

This is our bounty
In the evenings, fading.
This is our reverie
While the world is tilting

Away from the center.
This is our bounty
In the overflowing coffers.

This is the wealth
Of milk and honey,
Light-drops like wisps
On the evening air.