Voices over voices talking; laughter
seeps under the bar tables and into corners.
I'm with my friends and drunk - it doesn't matter.
I feel like singing.
This same joy rang a hundred years away
in ale houses and at marriage feasts: nothing
escapes the deep bosom of the earth. This memory dies with me.
There is no other.
In the shadow of our final instance, they
feel nothing save the moment, drink their pints
and muse on love or sex ... lads, you knew me well.
I'm leaving in the morning.
I am a writer living in St. Paul and the editor
of Whistling Shade (WhistlingShade.com).
My first novel, The Flower of Clear Burning, will be published this fall
by Novel Books Inc. For amusement, I fly airplanes.