We
are out-of-focus and we are
flesh. Some call this panting
love. So much is about
breath. Small at night. Large
in our wakefulness, largest
when the body mates, when the moment
rides on its own rising. Only then
are we safe. —from
ourselves. —Our fears, our hates. Blood.
A little dust and a little water.
Sun and moist seed
shivers and climbs. Call this blind,
call this a movement toward light.
by Mark Irwin
from Quick, Now, Always
BOA Editions, Ltd. Brockport, NY, 1996
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