6:45 a.m.

I'm listening to John Fahey play America
in all its pre-fascist glory
before the tide rolled out

I'm thinking about Frederick Buechner
how his words shined
back when belief was a luxury

I'm thinking about wrestling with the angel
in the early morning hours
when I still lay a-bed
She whispered of days
when angels consorted with men

I'm thinking about the day
living in the belly of the beast
breathing infernal desires
of the Whore of Babylon
the perfume of her daughter Diana

Now Ares' footprint is firm on the soil,
for he is the royal consort,
and the Ghost of the Flea
delights in pyre ash

Most of all,
I'm thinking about you
and the hour
you will stand at my door