In April br the ponds open br like black blossoms, br the moon br swims in every one; br there’s fire br everywhere: frogs shouting br their desire, br their satisfaction. What br we know: that time br chops at us all like an iron br hoe, that death br is a state of paralysis. What br we long for: joy br before death, nights br in the swale - everything else br can wait but not br this thrust br from the root br of the body. What br we know: we are more br than blood - we are more br than our hunger and yet br we belong br to the moon and when the ponds br open, when the burning br begins the most br thoughtful among us dreams br of hurrying down br into the black petals br into the fire, br into the night where time lies shattered br into the body of another.