(Virgil can keep the Muses;
they’re welcome, of course,
but finer and fairer
than I’ll ever be. We must all of us set
reasonable expectations.)
Oh, Crooked God,
what can’t you do?
Go straight, go straight.
Then by the winding way
we’ll walk together.
Make me a criminal —
not Hercules, Orpheus,
or even Odysseus,
but a thief who
enters by the front door.
Hermes, polytropos,
give me the words —
to make them less lonely,
to capture their ears,
to move hearts to motion,
to leave behind fear.
Teach me your craft,
liar and lyre-maker,
thief, runner, wrestler:
god of my heart.
God of the crossroad,
a versified offering:
may you accept it,
and bless my new start,