What Happened Tonight
I apprehended Quevedo's blood red moon
first through the words of Borges,
and tonight through my own eyes.
Only one moon was apprehended, yet it died twice.
(I cannot quote Borges precisely, and I turned my attention to dinner).
In our fear we miss the feast,
this one that Death has brought us to.
This brief and insignificant joy
that fades to memory again and again,
squandered by most (myself included), in exchange
for some cheap or easy certainty.
Without gratitude for Death,
who is surely our host,
what humor can our selves, our ideas
hold if they must live forever?