In April
 the ponds
  open
   like black blossoms,
the moon
 swims in every one;
  there's fire
   everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
 their satisfaction.  What
  we know: that time
   chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
 is a state of paralysis.  What
  we long for: joy
    before death, nights
in the swale-everything else
 can wait but not
  this thrust
   from the root
of the body.  What
 we know: we are more
  than blood-we are more
   than our hunger and yet
we belong
 to the moon and when the ponds
  open, when the burning
   begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
 of hurrying down
  into the black petals,
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered,
into the body of another.
into the body of another.