All the natives strike up a match.
They watch, they dance.
The night blends with their flames, vibrant and young.
I follow her pine-scented hieness,
A dream of a girl.
And to bed I lay alone,
And to sleep I cannot fall.
Even with the bottles counting more.
Anchor to the weak and weep to their chief,
I've waited long enough in my own apathy,
Masochism poetry for small-town sympathy.
The line has ended,
And jump I must.
I'm trying to edit,
The parts I cannot trust.
But a night with you,
Bourgeois and red and true,
Might soften the blow,
And from my sullen head,
Imagination could brew.