the weight,
the weight we carry
         is love.

Who can deny?
         In dreams
it touches
         the body,
in thought
         constructs
a miracle,
         in imagination
anguishes
         till born
in human--

looks out of the heart
         burning with purity--
for the burden of life
         is love,

but we carry the weight
         wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
         at last,
must rest in the arms
         of love.

No rest
         without love,
no sleep
         without dreams
of love--
         be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
         or machines,
the final wish
         is love
--cannot be bitter,
         cannot deny,
cannot withhold
         if denied:

the weight is too heavy

         --must give
for no return
         as thought
is given
         in solitude
in all the excellence
         of its excess.

The warm bodies
         shine together
in the darkness,
         the hand moves
to the center
         of the flesh,
the skin trembles
         in happiness
and the soul comes
         joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,
         that's what
I wanted,
         I always wanted,
I always wanted,
         to return
to the body
         where I was born.