The Bugbear

Dionysus hid under the stage

when the bugbear entered the roadhouse

on Route 275 north of Colorado

last summer when rivers were flooded

with souls Hades refused.


The owl flew down from a snowy mountain south of Denver.


The festival continued with Pipers satiated with wine playing until dawn.


Dancers wore laurel in blond curls

that hung down their naked backs

and sang dis-ambiguous lyrics of an old song.


Lovers lay together in the pine forest.


We died in each other’s sweet breath and lambent caresses.


Dionysus rested in lucid reverie

naked by rimpled creek waters

while gods and goddesses smiled

to themselves

in their etheric heaven

where all lived free

from the maw of mammon’s grasp.

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