82.

Roses are more gorgeous than us: we are as birds

On the wind, taking in the pollen, feeling

The smooth pedals, a deeper red

Than blood. How do we love when death

Is in the air like a typology?

The grave-cradle of our breath and not

The urn of these woods — what can we do?

We can play and breathe hard as if there were

Too much air. We can stagger in a circus,

Tumble like acrobats, make more of us

To tumble more. We can embrace

And fashion as substitutes. We can make

Something more decent than cycle or machine

And hope there is some truth to this dream.