Tonight We're Going to Party Like It's 1799
Not a tincture of water for the first.
If the roof is indeed on fire.
Oh yeah, a moody sky, but not a rainy one.
And if it’s a solid mile to the pond?
If the woods are full of strong owls?
The story is men uncover
the yard, they pack the house with dirt.
They slide all furniture
against the walls. Death and the beautifully
painted door open at once.
A few drift into it.
It is in this fire they fuse to the architecture—
their spirits the exhaust rushing now
through our vowels, only in a different way.
Like the spirits rising up
from cracked beers.
Their posthumous jeremiads
bidding us: Listen.
As hawks curve over the horizon like reason
in the ugly argument: Party.
Like he who knows
the answer is sometimes flame. He who paints
the exit maps of the heart,
we won’t ever
© 2005 Electronic