76

If I Praise the High Gods

If I praise the high gods

immortal in our passing flesh

as the constant sun,

it is with laughter, won

when their field was lost, fresh

from the hoarse cries and blood-soaked clods

and, for that, a most holy hymn.

Our drunkenness of love and blind

war is theirs, and theirs

the potency that snares

each human face, wrenching the mind

to robot hand and goose-step limb;

only a holy hymn dare praise

the warring gods’ uncertainty

of aim when the bound heart

breaks and wrests apart

from them. Soaring, they name us free

who spurn mere amplitude of gaze.

Real gods, caged in man’s endless war,

yearn their defeat, loathing the mask

they live through. And after,

wells silver laughter

such as they laugh when they ask

if, after all, any high gods are.