Art is our defense against hysteria and death.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.