our words outlast the weight of ourselves,
  to breast the wave and still themselves there,
even the Spring with its careful hands
   dole out lobotomies in cherry trees; their fall
  is not our fault, the behest of their nature.

this is the way the light sees itself disparaged,
  from which darkness still seethes and grows
  there is nothing we ought to do but look up
as unsuspecting as the world in the rain
tricked by the passing of words not our own
  but someone else’s translation – we cannot be helped.

we shall pare the flesh from the bone
we shall strip the fruit of its fresh glaze
we shall gaze upon a tulip and behead its fragrance
we shall raise our clenched hands and eat beasts
with our bare hands,

        and as an unquiet stone turns in its station,
pours out of its mouth, a tilted shadow,
we stride past worlds, our mouths tender with words
as though we have not yet feasted our fill.