I do not call to gods and guides
occasionally, like an estranged relative, checking in.
I call to them continually, for I feel them continually
in the wonder of waking through dream’s residue,
in the sun-wheel’s floral pulse,
in deliciously bitter clock bites,
in gently descending equations,
in gravity’s pull on my beard,
in exquisite nymph-songs,
in the tongues of dead wizards,
in the childheart unbanished,
my mouth full of galaxies and my throat throwing colors I call,
I call.