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!