Bivouac
What brews the poison rising to our throats—
something once ripe, that spoiled?
Or was it rotten from the start: our sickness.
On this night, as we stumble with the Harveys'
flashlight along the Rio Grande brush,
we feel alive, miraculously clean.
A strong scent of alfalfa in the air,
hot-blooded stars as close as lovers' eyes—
everything draws to a hunger of the tree
ancient scrolls fabled, the appeal of what is right.
For this is what we'd really like to be:
good, like these campers, to everybody… good,
even if our hands are stained with blood.
What brews the poison rising to our throats—
something once ripe, that spoiled?
Or was it rotten from the start: our sickness.
On this night, as we stumble with the Harveys'
flashlight along the Rio Grande brush,
we feel alive, miraculously clean.
A strong scent of alfalfa in the air,
hot-blooded stars as close as lovers' eyes—
everything draws to a hunger of the tree
ancient scrolls fabled, the appeal of what is right.
For this is what we'd really like to be:
good, like these campers, to everybody… good,
even if our hands are stained with blood.