I have inhaled steam
from the half-sodden earth
these summer nights
and dreamed while strange lights
played among the trees.
By the wavering light of Altair,
From the magnolia gloom over there,
Comes the terrible huntress into the light.
One breast gleaming,
weeping milk on darkened grass,
Suddenly alive the full moon night.
She says to me, these things never should be.
And placing frost-cold fingertips on my eyelids, I see.
Blood-orange lights rend the northbound road,
White daggers grievously pointing south;
This is hubris, said she,
and you are the mouth.
I drink, I speak.
I drink, I sleep.
I drink.
C.B. Crenshaw 