So that I May become the God of Lost Things

Give me dust sand and the bones of a man.

Lend me the blackstone pestle to my hands

And let me crush these into a powder fine.

Add blood and mix a paste that is thick with soul

And pour it into the alabaster mould I carved.

Let my eternal lover be created in another’s image--

In the likeness of he who is no longer found--

And place him in the kiln that is the womb of a star,

Shutting the door tightly behind.

This beloved stranger, with a face too well-known,

Will emerge from a black hole in only an eternity

And bring with him the divinity I am prepared to steal--

That divinity which I created.