We are all gathered around the point of impact
Seated by the fire of old logs and old tires,
Dried-out flowers, floss and scutellum,
A bowl full of night by our side.
Some started drinking from the middle
Of the bottle, others went looking for lightwood
Just in case we lose ourselves in the sky.
We struggled even to form a bucket brigade
Of emotions, let alone ponder flight.
Better if not examined too closely,
The evening takes on the sheen of weight.
All of our motions fill the containers
Stacked along the circle of companions
Of circumstance, coming and going, unweld,
Accidents maturated in dumb tumult.
Tomorrow, we’ll nomad our way
Out of this wilderness, after it falls.