My ancient, my coxswain, my caddy.

I want everything: my bed etched
with the fleur-de-lis, a kingdom,
God’s praise and a lesson. A sign.

The Greeks eyed their boats
and went to hell. With your help.
With your help, I would as well
but am still, waiting for proof —

for the Luna caterpillar, a surprise, green
as new moss growing
on a temple gong,

for an apple left perfect in the path —
red mouth of discord mewling
at the marriage gate,

for some fucking angel to arrive and say
lo, to wing in soft, to offer
a lily for luck. I am asking,

by God, for anything.