2-7-18
It is dark here, but we do not forget the sun.
We drink to his name.
The depth of cloud is not oppressive,
it is home.
I am accustomed to dipping in and out of light
in small reflections,
like ice cubes.
They spice my drink, and I am a little point of light.
It is a little warm.
(We drink to his name)
Not quite to the level of ballads,
our songs still hang around amidst the hum
of traffic and the city’s own darkness,
forgetting it was once damp trees.
The cedar is a strip of red,
not brake lights,
unlike it, I do not stand out in the din.
We sing his name. (quietly, to ourselves)
I haven’t gotten to where I’ve gotten
on bad fortune,
but its orbit is vast.
Even if you enter it with light,
you will be robbed. Cycling
back to loam, wet and likely dark,
but accepted by this place. Part of the song.
We drink to your name.
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