What is prayer but this then:
Lolling grasp of fishes dank in bog hollows
Come to the surface for a handful of crumbs,
And mouths in movement as if to speak
But gasping silently against the open sky?
What is love then but this:
A violent shiver to the hand’s caress,
Annoyance and anger thrust into a groping eye,
Her fingers yanking back onto her ocean floor
Her organism shied behind a blood-cloud?
What is life, then but this identity of self
Sounded from a fenced in herd of rodents
Trampling all to break away from blind confinement
In this the arching blackest room of domed night,
Moonset exit to the far west wind in tumult?
What is death therefore but severed soul
To incarnations other in the ever search,
The never found abounding out of reach,
Tendrils of my ghost a mist of morning
Clung to gleaming bark of early spring?
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