I love the friends we’ve gathered here tonight
to walk with waters and ancient martyrs, to stalk
the lost grass, to kiss the frost in the night.
One walks for miles to puke her tears. One talks
for hours to mute her fears. I lie with rocks
and sacred flowers before Dawn’s tomorrow
with friends gathered for these earthly sorrows.
Dawn is bringing her worst bitch Tomorrow
but allows us night drowning along stars
before they burn, they bake by the stark toe
of day (in damp dark of my mind’s memoirs
of Earth). Damp fire sticks and dances around
us, simmering-sparking as did the dead.
Dawn is singing me requiems to bed.
Friends got drunk off the freedom by the moon.
Some found songs, some iron strings, and being
within celestial mead’s sacred swoon—
We swayed too soon by the dark days coming,
and soon thoughts of night will have us saying:
Make love with freedom beneath many moons’
time. Be drunk off the still coming of night.
