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There has been Another death. This time I bring it to you. You are kind, Brutal, You know How to lower Bodies. I ask only That the rope Isn't silk, (Silk doesn't break) Nor thread, (Thread does.) If it lifts And lowers Common things, It will do.
This poem is in the public domain.
Moon dance,
you were not to blame.
Nor you,
lovely white moth.
But I saw you together.
He goes along,
in his thin flesh,
narrow bones,
slow blood,
old hat,
old clothes,
old shoes,
singing for love, battling for love.
He will go down,
in thinner flesh,
We are molecules—
whose fate it is to quarrel—
who knows why?
It isn’t when we're underfoot—
it’s when we’re in the air—
two of us after one air-hole!
We don't do it—
we like being still—
it’s the wind does it!
Do lovers know why?