My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre- To be redeemed from fire by fire. Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

Only through time time is conquered

The end is in the beginning.

Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.

Every moment is a fresh beginning.

Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.