Whatever it is, off the tops of our heads, gods drink,
Ambrosia, soma, mercury, it tastes good to them.
They grow strong on it until it makes them
Increasingly silly and weak. We find them
Lying around, fishy godheads lolling, looking innocent,
If not dead. That’s when they’re ready to drink
From us again. They’re real, you know, no more
Unreal than any thing named. But although we
Made them, and we feed them with our songs
And such, and they need us to get around,
They aren’t at all like us, even the ones we make
Just like us, least of all the ones most like us.
They’re real, yes, and often powerful, but not quite,
Not quite yet, alive. They come to the creek
In the evening, in their boats of books and palaver,
And they sip the pools of poems we left them.
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