Overlook on Propsect Hill

it took me three years
and the stench of whiskey
to comprehend our position here
on prospect hill.

if you ask me, we’ve been thundering
for springtime for far too long.
the forces of
aptitude are reducing our spirits
to fire and candle wax
and I haven’t yearned for rain
this much since the day i
stole the pastor’s hat.
but don’t ask me,
i’ll keep to myself.

last evening i wrote to the
love of my life,
who should be at home and asleep
in a cream-lace cradle out
in virginia.
i figure she’ll never know,
since i drenched it in bourbon
and their runner lies sleeping
in the fog.

have you ever really noticed the moon?
i wonder-
the milkweed they have here
pierces so high the
Georgian midnight
but the stars themselves
keep from blushing.
a flush of red would do some good-
there’s a dull sheen of river lilies
glancing past the horizon,
and a bleeding heart only
shows that you’re alive.