I pray that love will never come to me
with murderous intent,
in rhythms measureless and wild
as the dancing of a child
on the skulls of elders piled
with treacherous effect.

Our procreative act
assumes a special depth:
the lonely face of Death
demands replacement for what’s lost.

Slow and gentle sleepiness
displaced by our desiring
becomes a much more urgent thing,
awakes in tempo quickening,
enlarges rhythm, replaces past.