The night is meant for us to speak of eternal things.

Of faded photographs,
Of chicory, coffee and great-grandmothers,
Of protractors, set squares, and trigonometry,
Of slow trips on motorcycles to the blue hills of Santa Cruz,
Of the purple shades of a summer night,
The origins of life,
The origins of the universe,
Or — who knows, who can know — the universes,
Or the origins of our love.

And yet we all are gathered here
Tonight to sit and talk
With a cup of tea in hand
Around this crackling fire
Among our friends and lovers
Upon this sandy beach
Beside these rhythmic waves
Beneath that open sky
Below those distant stars,
To sit and talk and talk
Of politics.