A Poet Reflects

A friend says I would worship anything, that worshipfulness is my            malady, A malady and not a balm.  If so, then silence is a vow I might           consider. For now, I make a prayer to the blur-through-the-trees that is the fox, To the long drawn orbit of Pluto,                                                   to the mountain laurel, To the bracken well, to the whole heavenly host of volatile spirits.
—Eric Pankey, section IV of “Volatile Spirits” in Reliquaries (Ausable Press, 2005)

A friend says I would worship anything, that worshipfulness is my
            malady,
A malady and not a balm.  If so, then silence is a vow I might
           consider.
For now, I make a prayer to the blur-through-the-trees that is the fox,
To the long drawn orbit of Pluto,
                                                   to the mountain laurel,
To the bracken well, to the whole heavenly host of volatile spirits.

—Eric Pankey, section IV of “Volatile Spirits” in Reliquaries (Ausable Press, 2005)

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