Hairy fruit is twining its way
up twisted twigs along the horrifying
Hudson; and tonight all eyes
are on the Catskills foothills
where the spirits of Henry's
mutinous crew may return tonight
to tweak with midnight piglike sprites.
Meantime our bottles of bourbon
seem to be drinking themselves
while our mouths mutter prayers
while the gibbous moon waxes,
and tomorrow our minds
will just barely remember.