Sean Patrick Leary


Breasts overflowing from medieval garb,
dance through my high altitude alcoholic haze,
along the shadows of the dark lit street,
seducing me to give in to the autumnal equinox,
and follow the Green Man. 

The maidens circle his staff,
passing bottle and glass,
singing, we’ll toast your wine,
and drink your brew,
and maybe we’ll make love to you. 

They spin in flowing dresses
to the beat of a hand drum,
toward the four road intersection
for the trial of the Grump. 

Under the Crested Butte, backlit by harvest moon,
before a council of Sir Hapless, the Earth Dragon
and the pregnant Harvest Mother,
with observing torch bearers, fairies,
straw boys and maidens,
the Grump is sentenced
and the sacred fire lit. 

When we have thrown our complaints
and the Grump has burned,
breasts now bare, dripping in pagan sweat,
dance the flames circumference,
where men dare to charge through,
screaming, all that dies, shall be reborn. 

I tip my bottle and try my luck,
when two exhausted men,
with whom I had victoriously stood
on a snowy peak early that very day,
collide and crash under the smoldering embers,
their night lost to the flame. 

So I retreat for rest, away from the nave.
but I am spent, and only find my way
to lay nearby, in a shallow grave.



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