I REFUSE to name the gods, because they have no name.
I refuse to describe the gods, because they have no form nor
shape nor substance.
Ah, but the simple ask for images!
Then for a time at least, they must do without.
But all the time I see the gods:
the man who is moving the tall white corn,
suddenly, it curves, as it yields, the white wheat
and sinks down with a swift rustle, and a strange, falling flatness,
ah! the gods, the swaying body of god!
ah the fallen stillness of god, autumnus, and it is only July
the pale-gold flesh of Priapus dropping asleep.