Eventually everyone abandons
old gods. The Romans did, the Greeks, the Goths.
Poor Jupiter, sad Gaut— swallowed like Metis,
or like Persephone, exiled underground.
Great Pan is dead. There is nothing new under
Helios, or Ra, or any ball
of burning gas. Old gods, all gods, are
nothing but constructions of finitude.
What is, defies each attempt. Even
the atheists fail, their ridicule grasping
straw. But still, transcending all the light
of each imagined form, outlying limits
of sense, that surface of last scattering—
there is nothing but a kindlier dark.