Shatter their idols. Melt the goddess down
to coinage – you have hungry troops to pay.
Sober and starving on a sacred day
men’s love is dearer to you than a crown.
But not as dear as knowing whom to praise-
you grope to him – it’s him, you’re sure – through mist
of failed ideas. You’ve written down a list-
writing is hard. Ideas and words will craze
your mind if let. So let it rest a while.
A hint of what he means smells like the rain
perhaps he’s simply when there is no pain.
He’s thunder anger, terrible his smile.
You dread you’ve built him. Pray he sits alone
unmade, dictates you true names from his throne.