An olive, please, and not so much vermouth.
Remember, our desire is light not heat.
Let pass the blond parade of Saxon youth.
The drums of time will damp their orphan beat.
They come and go. We sigh how soon they turn.
Dry leaves and cellos at the sunset hour
mean now that only ruddy embers burn.
The milky juice of dreams too soon goes sour.
Let’s gather up the books. There is no more to learn.
Behold the child of grace who needs no cure,
as light as feathers in the vagrant sun.
Behold the man whose fault has bled him pure—
he will become what cannot be undone—
a knot within the web the world weaves.
The crowd is gone, so pour another round.
Gray banks of clouds above burnt orange leaves
is all the truth philosophers have found.
A toast! The breath that blew a kiss begins to wheeze.