I miss you in the mornings
when you teach the foxes to dance,
barefoot and all a trick of the light.
You are peculiar,
though all the best things are.
We may not break the bone,
but we do drink the marrow.
Yes, you say.
Wait for me, if nothing else.
Yes,
though I see how it pains you to admit it,
to spit it, to rip it out,
in spite of it being true.
You, whose only weapon is a shield.
You, who are free.
It is easy to forget
that Dionysus was the god of chaos,
too,
and that theres a bit of him in all of us.
We don't have to move the mountain.
We can live in the caves
and learn to be less real than we are.
We say new things in an old language.
The enemy ships land,
and we join them on the beach,
spinning round their fires,
singing war songs to each other's reaching hands.
How strange to be a part of something
and still be your own.