the sunflower goddess,
the lady of elderberry wine;
the gods of conjunctions,
shape-shifting, shutter speed;
the two-faced god of
writer's block and inspiration —
blind-folded both, a bunch
of rusty keys around their neck.
I build a pagoda and weave
spells into its walls, gently
sandpaper its eaves into scenes
from half-remembered dreams.
In the hexagonal room the gods
withdraw to penumbral niches.
There on my soft square pillow,
faded and dimpled twice,
I kneel and watch them
pray for me.
