There Must Be Real Gods

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

Sing And Your Hell Is Heaven, Your Heaven Less Hell.

Thoth, Hermes, The Stylus, The Palette, The Pen, The Quill Endure, Though Our Books Are A Floor Of Smouldering Ash Under Our Feet.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.