What are these things that draw toward us,these visitors that hide among us

and what is not thereis always more than there.

Incarnation is an empty glass.

Do all things come to an end?No, they go on forever.

All things come to an end.No, they go on forever.

Every night passes grief-stricken, weeping.

April splinters like an ice palace.

This tedious letter to you . . .what is one life to another?

the resuscitation promisedseason after season, more and morelike the paramedic breathing intothe heart-stopped victim; the victimstretched unconscious on the sidewalk,the savior with the fix leaning intoand sucking the dead backto the difficult, even impossible,even dreaded and unwanted quick.