Sitting in your chair, smoking your effetely rolled cigarette,
I see the image of the icy moon refracted
In the stolid waters gone black
And it is a solemn night in Connecticut
When only coyotes are killing.
Naturally, a full moon mines the passage
Envelopes our conversation in its dull supernal glow
And a small flame wicks itself
In the heat of exhaled smoke
The acrid curl of whiskey licking the throat
The heat of our young blood
On the night of the hunt.
In blood we are borne
The milk of that husky moon
And the dusky howl of the darkness that surrounds us.
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