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)
