I once observed a man
turn down a drink
with a careful wave
and a too-sincere
“I’ve fought my way out before;”
and he shall again.
If it weren’t that I, too
have embattled golden calves
and slid my hands upward along them,
brought to bear my reflection
in the golden navel,
I might have forgiven him.
Even all my renegades
round the flame that
snaps into unclouded skies,
at least they, flickering,
are not yet maimed.
Disappear instead, into drink and dress
and ride your mare
to the wilderness.
This is courage.
“And the brave among them face death,
when they do,
for fear of great evils?”
Yes.
Were I a hoplite with a golden shield
I’d forged from my mistakes,
and a mighty field
of fairground pleasures
arrayed before me
raised their spears,
I’d dance and dance and drink my fill
of blood, of wine, of fear, of skill.