31 December 2013

Advent of Winter

In pubs of dark houses they gather
around their song
like hounds around prey, in caves
of revolt they huddle
and howl bold melodies
shaped by their forebears, wishing to say
only in song and not in writing or even
not in long-winded summits downtown,
what the world until then
had been afraid to say;
they say it through the bitter poem of malt,
men with distance in their look.
The taste of salt permeates the room
and is in breath that clings
to the rafters, like inner clouds;
it is late, but always
one more song, one more pint, one more way
to look at a woman passing by,
and perhaps when the age of the year
begins to announce itself, snow in the mountains,
as leaves die by the millions
and cover the terrain with blood,
perhaps then the love of country
will guide their horde
out of public and into private houses,
where their women await
with perfume between their thighs,
women who do much more than just pass by.
You can't say that about love, which has
no smell and is marked by effortless grace,
and builds inside the chest of a man.

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