Feast

One more kiss of life in the warm September night,
again, shirtless I breathe the smoke of dreams
close to the end
before the throat splits malignant.
 
One more night the mist grows on the swollen
red sickle moon.
 
One more night the dusk writhes
with the shapes of bats gorging
on blood-suckled mosquito
fertile in the thick soaked grass
that grows so wildly
that dark crowded monoliths of summerfat cows
graze with heads full-buried in alfalfa.
 
One more earth feast on that night poetry
miming lies that might have been
with indefinite extension
of summer's fading pulse.
 
One more decadent night
I fail to pay the dealer's front.
Eternally empty
world-worn empty for new blood
he feasts on all the things we own,
for as we fed in our excess
he must balance this equation.
 
The planet fattens, waxes in one hemisphere
with temperamental seasons of favor
as the other wanes concurrent,
skewed so each night some new earth
may breathe warm lifemist
and then new killers stalk
to feed from that fertile soil
compost of all that once walked
dreamed, fed, or flew.