If we were less impermanent,
We'd forge our nails as hard as god,
Whose only child had kinder skin,
And veins cascading mortal blood.
The straightened line must have an end,
Entropic and irreverent
As any long expected wind,
Ill-suited to the penitent,
And those alike, whose stoic gaze
Accepts the loss of thought and dream--
All aenema a passing phase--
A balanced crossing on a beam.
Forgive me if I say again,
Come touch the wound, come taste the skin.