Spirit is: to live as though dead.
The winter branches of the blood
In paradox beneath your hand
Must crumble to a core of ash,
And every crimson twig must burn
To vacancy beneath your touch
Until you turn
Aghast towards a skeleton.
page 14 No magic can, my dear, divert
The motion of the living flesh
From its sure terminus in bone,
The impulse of the waking branch
Towards its deadly master sun.
The tree must burn
Or learn to live in ice alone.
He only asked one question then
Whether the Lord is known by heart
More than our winter years which turn
About an empty room and street
He said that ice as well as heat
Is known to burn
Both leaves and mortal flesh to bone.