Crazy to see you
after all these years, and still,
the same fears, despairs,
and excesses excite your temper.
And me, with my wrinkles
all out of whack.
Do you still hack xylophones
from whale bones
and igneous rock?
Your antique clock,
does it still churn eternally
its dyspeptic dirge?
And are you still telling
the same version
of your excursion into outer dark,
or has the truth finally
“set you free?”
This could be the last chance
we have to speak
to one another for an eon or so,
so why don’t you stick around
for one more drink?
I think you’ll be plenty satisfied.
I think you’ll die of lust.
-r. miller
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