Sunday Night

I want to get drunk
on violets so I can
soften and melt
and basil to lift
the spirits and repel
pathogens and
self-pathologies.
I want pot-valor
to rhyme more with 
pussy galore and night
to fall backwards 
onto a velvet sofa
when we talk late
so sunrise is eons 
away and Eos
will remember this
time to ask for 
eternal youth so as not
to transmute her immortal
decrepit beloved
into a cicada a word
I thought about earlier 
when it was still light
and how it corresponds 
to drone consciousness
and lips and a door that 
appears after many years
where once there was
none. The question is
Bob Dylan (I have to 
bring him into this I’m
in North Country) wrote
Not Dark Yet in the 
aughts to say it’s
getting there. So… by 
now it’s not even 
a question of Are
we there yet? but
How do you feed 
your grief?