The day of life and death offers its flowers:
Branches of flame toward a midnight lake of stars,
And the harsh sunny smell of weeds at noon.
In the clear season, we sit upon the graves
(Northern red leaf, frost-witches and toy ghost):
Here are the crystal skull and flowering bone.

The cloak of blood down the shoulder of the bull.

Whirl of mirrors and light about the blade
And the bullring turning groaning to the sun. —
We are all sitting on graves, drinking together,
Each grave a family gay on the hot grass,
Its bottle, its loaf of bread in a basket,
And a few peaches too perfect ever to wither.

And the river of light down the shoulder of the hill.

The drink of flowers and fire in the sun,
The child in pink holding her sugar skull —
This appetite raving on death’s high holiday:
Love of the dead, fierce love of the alive.
We eat the feast of our mortality,
Drink fiery joy, and death sinks down with day.

O in the burning day of life and death
The strong drink running down the shoulder of the grave!