For my parents.
Throw up your hat, dear.
The Earth is still
And all time spins from its spools
With a comic's measure.
Throw it to the drunkards' moon and their chandeliers
Up to that toppling view of Earth
And to what those brilliant Martians must
See, in their moment of recreation
That ours and theirs might coincide,
Give us a laugh.
Reach to the back of you,
Where my smallest hand was in some distant
Acquainted first and now.
I am dizzy with the sweat and rags of words
The jazz and enamel ground, worn.
Reach back and throw your hat high now,
It is the Auld Lang Syne they play
Where winter flowers stand aright.