Gods and Men

Some say the gods are with us still,
That they never even left us,
They are here in our letters,
Seldom glimpsed,
But not to be denied.

Mercurial is the word for it,
The way they evanesce,
These presences,
Outliving liturgy and rhyme.
Are the gods displeased with us?
Does our literature offend them?

When Ajax Oileus
Saw Calchas walking
He knew just from his gait
That it was Poseidon in disguise.
Perhaps you know the feeling.

Carefully the gods select
Those to whom they appear.
They judge their effects most shrewdly.
Centaurs are still needed,
Grazing among the trees,
Subtle as apostrophes and semi-colons.

Socrates was proud
To call himself a nympholept;
And who knows but drowning
Made Hylas wise?
What you scry in the water
Is yours to work with,
That quivering dazzling force.

The spider’s lexicon will trap you
Just like any other fly.
The offices of sound allow you this:
A puissant gesture, a winning glance.
The gods, too, were mortal once.