There will be Time to Mourn After the Party’s Done
Entranced by our Shadows
ever-turning trying to catch
The Source flickering bright
Illuminating yellow daisies
a shaft of clear light amid white blossoms
audible puzzle of carpenter bees guarding
doors with their bravado and false menace
How absurd he says
to think the Heavens are bound
by the arc of brow and skull
When the Work is over
let us rest with celebration
Amrita drunk
from a venerable
ancestor cup
laudable and agreeable
as anything fully done
Let no-one compose epitaphs
we remain unnamed see