Quit your god,
and go home
to yourself. Ripen, prodigal
with conceit. You are the passion
fruit, limb, vine. Prune away
the purity imposed on your
everything. You have forsaken
the Lover, your self.
The why and wherefore is that you
are, therefore you are. Your way.
Come up off your knees, to stand
on your earth-soaked feet in praise
of you who are slow to abandon
yourself. You are sovereign moon,
yielding tide. Unplumbable darkness
cupped clear in two palms, wine
turning back to water, power. Unholy
altar, make no sacrifice.