Pagans (poem 5)

All children are born pagans:
cathedrals concealed within
rhododendron, whispered rites,
copper wine from bare faucets
fresh-cut lawns like lost gardens
drawing water from wells drilled
deep into ancient hills,
filtered through sieves of rock
deep as memory, roadside where
the family dog was raptured,
ponds flush with bullfrogs growling
heathen prayers beyond all thoughts
or cares for their salvation.

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