Evenings are sliced oranges & three-penny jives
that feign to heal an eternal blight—
How we have changed, assumed all black
& sleeping, each to each, in antartic decks of dreams
create inferior stars & flamingoes’ witchraft
that once troubled the riverline of your heart.
Each speech most singular, each clash of glass
is the sharp tremor of the past that eddies back
in the crosscurrent of letters, calls & beers:
O How did memory devour like prairie fire
the brats of iron-laden wits, our onyx spires:
Baring our yellow teeth, order of absinthe & speech
We throw back our hearts into their wooden pits
Consolate as Virgil on his hell station beat.
How turn against this witchery? History of lyres?
Advent of circular griffins that Faith can quickly dash—
Our fingers, as if stung, disentangle in the lee
Our hair flowing into starnavel of the night!