we sing, to the waxed moons
and the spring that bloomed beneath us;
the noose that hung from our wind-chimes,
bottles on the bear rug in the basement.
Eight bodies on that rug,
too tired for the most part to fuck,
but we touched. We touched. Such a wonder.
I ask God now what we wanted and
what we got. We bought
happiness and sang it and stayed,
and began to leave, to Spokane,
to the bars of Ballard, the cathedrals of England,
to unknown far off sad Topeka,
and we sought what? What sought us?
Did God save us, those days,
from ourselves or each other, when
the devil brought his own liquor:
the holy veil torn up in a Biblical blunder,
a Messiah come in vein with a bang.
We sang?
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