The five of us sat at the dinner table
surrounded by potted flames
that flickered on the deck
and to the dark peripheral woods
black without a trace of stars
we talked of a lover -- early -- dead,
his ashes scattered on Mount Tampas -- 
a bus ride made desperate adventure
from North Carolina and a former wife
to San Francisco, then the Castro;
these lights contained in colored glass
a disco's old and beating strobe
thrown across five men at night
we drink and stare at slender flames
then know it's time to take leave -- 
a front porch with its lonely steps
the trail of grass to silent cars -- 
a screen of lights as moths abound
down to the woods all dark and still -- 
a stage with silhouetted heads bent toward
some body's gyrating form as from the house Donna Summers plays
"Dim all the lights because tonight
it's all the way.,." out to the yard
where nothing moves -- green vines
and darkened trees.