The Birds Of Night Peck At The

When Your Hands Leap Towards Mine, Love, What Do They Bring Me In Flight?

This Means That We Have Barely Disembarked Into Life, That We've Only Just Now Been Born, Let's Not Fill Our Mouths With So Many Uncertain Names, With So Many Sad Labels, With So Many Pompous Letters, With So Much Yours And Mine, With So Much Signing Of Papers. I Intend To Confuse Things, To Unite Them, Make Them New-born Intermingle Them, Undress Them, Until The Light Of The World Has The Unity Of The Ocean, A Generous Wholeness, A Fragrance Alive And Crackling.

And What Has Become Of It, Where Is That Onetime Love? Now It Is The Grave Of A Bird, A Drop Of Black Quartz, A Chunk Of Wood Eroded By The Rain.

I Had No More Alphabet Than The Journeying Of The Swallows, The Pure And Tiny Water Of The Small, Fiery Bird That Dances Rising From The Pollen.

Our Love Was Born Outside The Walls, In The Wind, In The Night, In The Earth, And That's Why The Clay And The Flower, The Mud And The Roots Know Your Name.