Last Light in the Tree

Every day another chapbook,
Another ragged collection,
Intended artisanal craft—

No, sorry, we didn’t mean that.
It sounded like we were mocking
Your intentions. Days are like that.

In the distance, a bearded man
Leaning on a staff carved to look
Like entwined snakes hobbles along,

But no one else notices him,
Grey old fool from a younger world
Where gods patrolled the boundaries.

We are beyond all that these days.
These days we command satellites
And hum inside the mines we carved.

Boundaries! Eh, we ignore them.
We carry your old gods along
Within us. Really, they were ours

Or, more accurately, were us.
But that’s a fine Ningishzida,
A little like Papa Legba,

And a little like Emaha
Decorating today’s chapbook.
Oh, is that supposed to be you?

You really put your heart in it.
Well, you try. The work is all yours.
Leave all the days to us. Now, dusk.