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“85. World, breath, disinherited us, even” in “Musing”
85.
World, breath, disinherited us, even
Before we claimed to live, and slowly
We have tried to build back up what we have lost
In this ruined globe. Distracted
And unapprehending, we, lovers in the skeltered
Light, clutch at the sun, but it too is
A dying star. Roses die into
Eternity. We crave fixity, a love
To last past the trap of time. We are
An oversight, a draft in great sadness
Passed as fully formed. The accident
Of our touch might be a tenderness.
How do we leave the tombs of sleep behind
The door we make the window we shape?
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