We come
to placate the beast.

We must choose one from a multitude,
that stand poised, subdued but alert,
row upon row 
of Qing Dynasty guardian lions.

We make our choice.

Deeming the position
and appearance
of this particular carnivore,
potentially, possibly fortuitous.

We bring tribute.

Once-were paper, yet though degraded,
still powerful talismans,
imbued with Esperance, laid cautiously as instructed
on brute's bottom lip.

Will offering be accepted?

Apparently, yes,
for with breathless inhalation,
gift disappears.

Oracle of sorts.

We watch sparrow-intent as one
blink-eye flash-signals - touch here,
press there. We take turns
scanning as sequences of Close Encounter
incomprehension trill and spool and spin.

Nothing makes sense.

Images flit-flicker and dance - impenetrable iconography,
hieroglyphics for the initiated.
We are not priests
Though we worship none the less.

We pay homage.

Bathed in the eerie sideshow strobe of garish light,
glimpses of feathered coins, a hoplite helmet,
an erupting volcano,
my acolyte and I, unfailingly mystified,
continue to press button, waiting vainly
for revelation.