Conjuring the Next

 
Through long afternoons  
until the last bird's song  
bleeds salt for a quartered moon  
when fingers rest  
and the best of me kneels  
to wonder if god will come soon  

When the sun tiptoes down  
and the lights of the town  
appear like stars one by one  
wooing the clouds  
while the hum of the hills  
wonders if God will come  
 
A witch from the woods  
is stalking the dusk  
with spells to quench all desire  
she stoops by a window  
watches and waits  
gathering hearts for her fire  
 
The Devil she meets is never asleep  
and the worst of me screams  
God's a liar  
Then might I be saved  
from death and the grave  
though deaf to his heavenly choir