Here at the end of a billion-year voyage of drudge
and trumping ridiculous odds
touch remains the cleanest kind of knowledge.
The only law is shamelessness.
Here mouths remake their promise
as the standards of the heart,
every utterance amazes,
each tiny cry is the aboriginal of language.
Tears are a global alphabet of blood,
milk a miracle of opulence,
and the currency of love.

Only the walls I’d nail as stately hypocrites
that scold CLEAN HANDS SAVE LIVES,
when what can be told
is only a mist of moving bulks,
nothing definite.