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?