Theurgy

We're spinning 'round

With French umbrellas

And you introduced me

To floor-based ministries

I'm a grief-stricken Pagan

Without a conversion

Our trysts were ablaze

With awkward precision

Songs have been written

About my weird sojourns

And six AM wake-ups

With Plato on deck

But we'll shuffle real cool

Down streets lined with leather

Inside debates, forever at last

Our hearts should collide

Until I lay still

In shadows corporeal

And someone shall find me

Betwixt dark brown wale

And I'll be a good ghost

With-out a sound

Cycling on damp streets

And running stop signs