Embers Crackling on the Spring Bonfire ’89 (NaPoWriMo 2015 #01)

The roaring fate of crabs that night:

scampering up the pot as

twenty-six ethnic dancers — all men,

all tan, all spraying sand as

their legs pound the bosom of the beach.

Staccato drums slice the April winds

and parry ever too seductively

with the full moon’s reflective

body; like fire-eaters and philosophers

who — for want of weed or sea —

ponder the secrets of the dying

embers crackling on the spring bonfire.

O! Jove! O! god of mania!

O! Sleepless bottles and cigarettes

and music and mushrooms

and the delicious dead crab!

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