MEN

we are men. we love to sit in a circle. we don't cry
over spilt beer. we let it dry. there are many


other things one can drown
in besides rivers in which night has made a home.

like the moon above us we know what it is to hold light
for the world, yet ourselves remain trapped
in an unlit dream. ours are tongues that shrink, and descend

outside the city gates, dragging their benefactors along.
we will watch our jokes grow old even before they are born
and our laughter harden quickly into unswallowable crusts.

and we will let the wind whip our consciences in vain.
later, when our stomachs are swollen with foam and with ease,
they will become landing pads. night, eager,


hovering, will descend

like a drunk bat, making a soft thud as it lands, wasting
no time before dashing inside to take its place and to make way
for more night. and we will still be men. we will still be sitting

in a circle, still not crying. over spilt beer, the fun is first
to die, becoming a mordant corpse that makes us
laugh one last time before our phones awaken.

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