Who wants to lose the world,

For all its tumult and suffering?

Who wants to leave the world,

For all its sorrow?

Not I.

And so I come to the Book,

Which is also the body

Of the beloved. And so

I come to the poem.

The poem is the world

Scattered by passion, then

Gathered together again

So that we may have hope.

The shape of the Book

Is the door to the grave,

Is the shape of the stone

Closed over us, so that

We may know terror

Is what we pass through

To reach hope, and courage

Is our necessary companion.

The shape of the Book

Is dark as death, and every page

Is lit with hope, glows

With the light of the vital body.