A walk in solitude is to talk to the soul,
beauty’s quest is to remove from life its defects until
we stop questioning and accept its secrets, involve, in love,
forests of contorted wax, how smiles melt and shadows pass
over valleys they darken as fingers dance across necks of
lutes, fretting that men’s purpose might, since our beginning, be
to end existence, to murder the earth, return the planet
to those forces which swirled, whose original collision gave its
form, that women serve our flowers’ fruit, that life’s tree
needs heredity to uproot so that heaven, too, can be

soothed.