We talked of gods in ancient worm-dug places
In saprophytic jungles steeped in gore
And kept capricious smiles off of our faces
Fast locked in faithless hearts by iron doors
Two promises we kept in sooty jars
And said “We two the keepers of these lights
Hold ever high these little clouded stars
That we may find each other in the night”
But I must play the good domestic man
A duty which demands the night be black
That I love youthful gods on fields of sand
That I forsake mushrooms, and not look back  
But crossed and out of sight, the star between,
My fingers keep my promiseling unseen