Written in the poet's own Triskadekian Canto form in 1997, to Panther, once referred to in an interview as "the rare poem better than the inspiration behind it".
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"Humble seulement en face de Dieu."
And so the great I Am must have loaned
a reasonable likeness to you.
For I am humbled. Cut down to size,
a bite size morsel for digestion
in the gullet of the phoenix.
The image of the Maker reborn
in graceful secrets, a sadness set
in stones of jet and jade and sapphire.
I have cut the stones we selected.
I have kissed the hems of the elected.
I have sheathed the souls, unprotected.
Wings drawn to launch pirouettes to land
amid dry stones and forgotten bones
left on the desert floor by the road.
Afterimages of shadowdance.
Bright shades casting calculated crimes
in stark relief of the honored dead.
"Humble seulement en face de Dieu."
So the prophecy and loss, counted
in killing stones, is crushed to the crust.
Sacraments in a cul de sac sent
skimming over the bleached beach sand dunes
that stretch far and away into hope.
I cast the runes in riddles, rhythm'd
to force slow staccato memory
to telegraph the tempest tonight.
I will worship with my memories,
I will worship with my threnodies,
I will worship with my vanities.
Zeus and Apollo, Odin and Thor,
small gods of passion, small gods of war,
acolytes on acid etch the night.
Futility folds a hand of prayer
and draws, to an inside straight, a queen
to take the place of fours and knaves.
"Humble seulement en face de Dieu."
I will touch the face of God tonight,
and offer earnest prayers in the dark.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.