We see him in our toast,

in dry wall and potato chips,

in tea leaves and alleyways,

in water stains and, yes,

the occasional abduction scenario,

and he reminds us

in the produce section

amidst the bananas and the pears,

with a well-hell

and a pelvic thrust,

that we will always find a way

to resurrect the useless

and the ridiculous

in ourselves.

We wail him, fast,

and promise to tear down the stars

to refigure Orion in his image

for a just a moment returned,

tender and true,

that we believed in

without too much intimacy,

without too much dear cost,

as such are the visions

we collect in the necromancer’s hymnal,

our Weekly World newsprint

of prophecies and diet schemes,

too uncertain these days of ourselves

to raise anything more

than a hound dog.