“Listen, you guys know me.
                         I’m hands off…”
                              –      Chuck, Supernatural 

I don’t need a god
to be full.  The moon
is waning, and I watch
her waist becoming thin,
the silver line between
her womb and her hip
reducing, drawing away,

and I choose
to see the good,
the beneficial
in the things I allow
slip away.

I don’t need a god
to tell me when
I’m empty, the places
I meet darkened faces
of my shadow; period.

I am seen
when I glimpse
Myself, in pools without light,
without surfaces
or mirrors of divinity.

I don’t need a god
to direct me
to reconstruction,
her gravity digesting
stars into gowns, diaphanous
manifestations of her
stations of sublimity.

I, too, am waxing
amid Copernican cycles
of growth.

And when I sleep, I dream
mythologies of antiquity,
where the gods descend to mortal
corners of creation, to find
alignment, of all
that is whole, and full, and fit

for visitation.