WE, STARS
Orion leans drunk
Upon the hill.
(The winter’s wine
Is its night air).
Rolling cold breath,
Sickle bright smile.
Knows the way home:
The well-trod way,
Wheels careless.
Drawn on by faint
Petticoat Pleiades
Perfumed and giggling.
Too far gone, always,
Ever to catch them.
(Faithful dog
Licking slack hand.)
He will slur a sea-shanty,
A limerick, a whistled
Through teeth
Tuneless tune
And roll on.
Neither happy
Nor sad.
—–
simonhlilly 