The Profane

Something would be mine.
I would take back with me
From the Ceremony of the Other,
My property, an own-most essence,
Being.

This is the return,
Gyre of felicitations in the hospital
That holds the voice. As a power,
Reverberating in resonance
The voice heals,
Bringing the world to heel

In a word:

The ground obeys. This
Is the revelation of feet,
This is the forbearance
Of shoes.

There is something profane
In divination,
But still I make my appellation.
This is the return:
To call, to prophesy
Towards what is not the one but only
You,

And sometimes to mistake it for a yew.