When drunk they lapse
into indecent vernacularisms—
some specialize in football.
We raise our arms in praise.
I have long been done with it all—
the drink, the indecency, the praise
—this morning I have forgotten
the names of trees, grasses, insects.
I call to the birds:
nature makes no response.
Friend, with your head drooping
in your up-turned hoodie,
how shall we hold ourselves together,
acquiesce in this autonomous
marching on?
