| 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. |