I’m nothing special. My life is all on loan.
Take a river fish, and make of its tight
Silvered movements and its leaf-like bones
Five thousand savouring thoughts:
Take one dry crust, crumble all its ashes
Into the wind, and feed the barren soil.
Have mercy on your friend’s disloyal kisses,
A sucker for martyrs, whatever style
A dozen men would like. And that’s enough.
Once water has been splashed around
From my brazen glass, dry in the mouth,
Though I am no saviour, you’ll taste the wine.
It takes no grace, no heavenly design
To help mute men to see, and blind men sing.