there will be no policies
and no apologies—
nothing to show but an increment,
all platitudes and pretend.

I tire of marching.
I want to lie down in the open
field of the stars and let 
the sky fall down atop me.

I want to luxuriate in musk,
human bodies, sweat and exertion
only in joy, in knowing
every one of us is alive

and safe under warm November 
night. Bisan tells us every day
is a miracle and this
is the miracle of tonight—

the moon tilted like a bowl of sake 
pouring gold into my open mouth,
the long skein of the highway home,
lover asleep on my shoulder.

That I am alive today to march
is enough wonder to fill me.
I gorge myself on hazy dreams
of a land where every star is free.