Soon we will have our gaudy night
and let day make what it will of the havoc.
We’ll out-love our past, be extravagant
in forgiveness and let the pain of loss
and age spice the celebration,
though roaches chitter from the cracks
in the wall and neighbors call the cops,
afraid the dead may have risen,
or some wayward passion, loosed
like flame might burn beyond control
and every neat house be harrowed to cinder.
The cold moon will glow in the joy
of its reflection, and the tilted earth
ease in its travail, knowing it’s not alone
in aberrance; mountains will celebrate
the thin air of their aspirations
and rivers enjoy the liberties they take
with gravity. At dawn we will sing
hymns to the newborn light and lie
in long grass daring the dew to cover us.