For all the world,
I'd not give this view out west
Where true friends gather to watch
the day burn itself out, in a peaceful explosion.
Amidst the dying beauty of plants and
muddy remnants of chlorophyll carpet,
we watch faceless drudges, unaware of elemental beauty;
heart-destroying to watch, yet transfixing.
The solitary dirge of the swan:
this time of day,
and this time of year,
the widow of both glide toward the west,
an ascension unparalleled.
We all descend into a warm, silk-like darkness,
just as liquor. The silhouettes of barely-clothed treemen,
settled comfortably on half-lighted
cloud cushions, wonderfully drunk and sedate.
Not for all the world.