Purpose

The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews—
waiting for the bite, the catch, the hook we dig in
all muscle, tug and trudge. We turn and turn. If I were

to say, beauty along the spiraling length of days
is all I want, and wine at the well—is that a heartless
if earnest lie? The pearl of our earth in black space
can’t reply

 

First line is from W.H. Auden’s poem, “Death’s Echo.”

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