God willing, I’ll find my own way
down to the rust caverns, down to the dust
and seared calcite, stressed and cleaved,
And God willing I will make a trance
of us, a Pan of us, all musics, impromptus
and guile. God willing.
And God willing we will take the rain
in our teeth, shatter on the brink of us,
barrel into the wall of us and bleed laughing.
And God willing we will cast the first fist
at the faceless faiths, bent as clay,
that engender the hates of hedons
and lusts that only skins abide.
For there is no god, God willing,
that will seek to stem the strides of us,
loose in the hills and running,
loose in the hills and ripping
our flesh in the brambles,
cloven and jagged.