Sang Froid

Once a year for short-lived single nights, the cereus.
These are the last days of Europe as we know it.

Morning’s prowl to one of the old
four-graces-caryatids

once summer-green now stain-rot footed   
by that other season’s weather

here’s water to quaff and bathe
a hive of city bees,

thirsty as we all are for
a more fountained life.
The West, as we knew it.

Finding it, they swig, finding them
I mourn –  there are ways still
to not yet die of thirsts. All our thirsts.

(Once a year for short-lived single nights, the cereus.
These are the last days of Europe as we know it. )

Butterflies, a day.
Naked all night, no kiss.
...