A god who disappears every
two thousand years wearing the fevered
veil of a fading life, posing like
he’s crucified, obfuscating light

meters into verse seven words ’til
their pathos peters out, memories
filling pages with sensational
scenes rubricated by scribes who might

have underlined how to live as he
has, yet no instructional survives
no matter how automatic these
devotional fiends bind themselves by

imitating epigrams in need
of a manual to read them right.


Exegetes and casual seekers
meet in colloquy where streets corner
each other, roads crossing lines as Dee
did when he dedicated Monas

Hieroglyphica to Emperor
Maximilian’s ignorance, eager
to deliver the secret to get
patronage, himself ignorant as

the empire’s villagers if he were
to believe anybody would get
it, stuff as nuts as this can trigger
intense reactions, make enemies

of benefactors, raise their fingers
against neighbouring nations, and flee.


Its mystery does as Circe did
to men, making swine of them feasting
on not knowing what they will become.
Metamorphoses tend too often

to happen before we realize
any transformation has worked its
magic by seeming natural, by
leading us on, as does suffering,

to intuited conclusions. His
crown is a point of intersection
whose placement points to more than a head
weighted down with hubris, its thorns run

with life from splinters of light splendid,
radiant, and always in season.