Somewhere among the deep
blue oceans and blushing skies,
among the countless U.S.O. halls
full of men tanked up
on rum cut with bitters
lay the perfect dive.
I show it to you
in its simplicity: quiet,
reserved for the night
a stag party certain
to get out of hand.
They always do. The shot-gun
of it seemly, almost empty
as a church before Sunday.
It echoes a song we learnt
as children; nothing of music
loud enough to make banal
conversations made small
in the dim light tripping out
of a jukebox, this charnel house
for the writhing dead.
Tomorrow
we will be arisen, each of us
a nave built on the memories
of our fathers. My
lips will
drink from you, decanting
ancient words, meaning
do this in honour
of and
tasting of wine
that remembered a crushing
of feet bared by those
who would pick our bones
clean. And, crisp
as a banker,
count them back
as days here ever
after.
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