(no subject)
when it's warm enough i have vigil masses on the porch,
trying desperately to recreate the sacred warmth of
six summers ago when everything was urgent and gold,
when i remember praying, praying i'd never get old.
tonight i'll go into the attic for the rifle and
down to the cellar for the shovel, and get to
digging a grave for all my bloody days in the yard.
we're burning old charcoal in indigo evenings,
some offering to the ancient god holding court
from a white wicker throne on the shore.
my hope is that the smoke makes him dance
and that the dancing makes him remember:
young loves don't last forever but our
bones stay in the ground for a while.
then he'll run some cosmic balance and hours
from youth will return to make us smile.