At a bus stop, light rain, 

While penciling dreams

On a job application

I saw God pushing

A shopping cart filled

With half sent prayers. 

And from no great distance

They looked to be made of

Cigarette packs and 

Fast food wrappers. I

Knew mine were in

There, somewhere. 

Look, you faerie killer,

You wing clipper, glamourless

Architect, look

How the gossamer thins

And look, you newborn,

Fomorian soldier. The

Iron was mined

On the shoulders of progress.

Styrofoam magic,

Circuitry warlocks, and

Witches with shopping carts

Slurping through straws

Formaldehyde rich,

Cauldron stirrers, changelings.

Red caps and sluagh.

Look, you fir bolg,

Gwydion's bane.

You, who thinks little of folk

and less of magic,

Chained to the scrying mirror,

Ghost of dew,

Look at the seasons,

Each one in reversal and

Spitting out blackness.

Selkies undressed.

And look, once more to

The aging horizon.

You've blacked out the stars,

In favor of filament wisps.