Here’s to your life
and here’s to your death

and here’s to coughing
and here’s to breath.

Here’s to snowfall
here’s to flurry,

here’s your hat,
what’s your hurry?

Here’s to judge,
here’s to Jewry,

here’s to beer,
here’s to brewery.

Leave me alone,
I want to worry;

make me lamb chops,
make me curry.

Here’s to Voigt,
here’s to Bidart,

here’s getting off
to a running start.

Here’s to Dove,
here’s to Levine,

here’s to the graveyards
in Berlin and Wien.

Here’s to Gilbert
who learned it from me,

here’s to the ninety-foot
Christmas tree

he fell on his head from
shortening his height,

here’s to the grimness
of his grim night;

and I could go on for
forty pages,

listing my joys
and listing my rages,

but I should stop
while I’m still ahead

and make my way
to my own crooked bed;

so here’s to the end,
the final things,

and here’s to forever
and what that brings,

and here’s to a cup of
coffee in the winter

and here’s to the needle,
and here’s to the splinter.

And here’s to the pear tree
I couldn’t live without,

and here’s to its death
I wrote about

from 1966
to 1972,

a kind of root
from which I grew,

and here’s to the fruit–
I like that too,

bruised and juicy
through and through,

and here’s to the core
oh most of all

and how I chewed it
from Mall to Mall

and how I raddled
the stem in my teeth

as if it were wind
against a red leaf;

and here’s to the wind
and here’s to your eyes

and here’s to their honey,
dark as the skies

and here’s to the silk roof
over your head

and here’s to the pillows
and here’s to the bed

and here’s to your plaid robe,
and here’s to your breast,

and here’s to your new coat
and here’s to your vest

and your fine mind and its desire
as wild and crazy as the fire

we saw burning going home in the dark,
driving by and wanting to park,

but stopped by sirens and flashing lights–
wild nights, wild nights,

a pine tree in the other lane,
cones exploding in my brain.