by Thomas Kinsella

    I nodded. The books agree，

    one hopes for too much.

    It is ridiculous.

    We are elaborate beasts.

    If we concur it is only

    in our hunger： the soiled gullet.

    And sleep‘s airy nothing.

    And the moist matter of lust

    —if the whole waste of women

    could be gathered like one pit

    under swarming Man，

    then all might act together.

    And the agonies of death，

    as we enter our endless nights

    quickly， one by one， fire

    darting up to the roots of our hair.