The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?
My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.
Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.
But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.
Leo Connellan has retained his soul and voice in Provincetown and Other Poems.
The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.