"It matters not to me, as I assume / Some gods cannot exist except in dreams, / In trifling songs."
O Lord, methinks I'll call you Lord. Are you
Affixed up there on high, or somewhere else?
And us lowdown in murk mistaking blue
Above as heaven, hell beneath cool grass.
It matters not to me, as I assume
Some gods cannot exist except in dreams,
In trifling songs. I guess most folks presume
To hear from you by way of simple hymns
Or over-the-counter meds hallucinations.
My mood's been altered by rum. I'd like to mellow
And spy just once, you, big fellow. Creations
Upon creations! So, might I feast on crow?
This bottle's full of nothing. I'll say good night
And find the faith to know you'll get the lights.
Harold Whit Williams is a prize-winning poet and longtime guitarist for the indie rock band Cotton Mather. He is the recipient of the 2020 FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, the Mississippi Review Poetry Prize, and the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. The author of five books of poetry, Williams lives in Austin, Texas where he records lo-fi music as Daily Worker and catalogs the KUT Collection for the University of Texas Libraries. A Rain Ancestral is his sixth book of poems, but the first released by San Antonio Review Press.