Always?

 ALWAYS?

Tonight it’s the future we toast 

with the crushed bodies of the dead, 

wash down the question in our throats

before it slips out, said. 

And what else is there to do 

here—one eye weeping while the other

tracks the thin path winding through

the thickets—but give it the honor

of drinking, both eyes open? Still, 

wind whistles through a squirrel skull.

It is a note that brings it to a boil

again, this hope we know so well.