In the deep fall, the body awakes,

And we find lions on the sea-shore—

Nothing to fear.

The wind rises, the water is born,

Spreading white tomb clothes on a rocky shore,

Drawing us up

From the bed of the land.

We did not come to remain whole.

We came to lose our leaves like the trees,

The trees that are broken

And start again, drawing up from the great roots;

Like mad poets captured by the Moors,

Men who live out

A second life.

That we should know of poverty and rags,

That we should taste the weed of Dillinger,

And swim in the sea,

Not always walking on dry land,

And, dancing, fund in the trees a savior,

A home in dark grass,

And nourishment in death.