Twenty-nine poems. Why not twenty-eight?
Or thirty, for a pleasant rounder sum?
Enough? Too much? Not mine to calculate,
a magic number; sic oraculum.
To woo your breast and breath and arms and mind,
I offer heartbeats mounting, unmeasured.
While cauldrons, crystals, Tarots, chants divined
In  mute clairvoyance thrash for magic words,
Conjure instead through too-neglected modes
Of phrase however many formulas
One needs to effervesce a life. Hymns, odes,
Lim’ricks, haiku, hip-hop, hallelujas,
And more augur with countless verse and rhyme
But one incantation: Belovéd Prime