IV

What paradox describes your voice that though never sentenced dead

was buried in my garden, black damp earth ever untended.

How is this your voice, that though buried rose again

and said kiss my lips they'll heal this poisoned lake.

What paradox describes your hand, a palm without a line

containing a breviary of my failures you alone can read.

How is this your hand, emancipate of form and yet

unyielding as it pulls my drooping soul outside the lake.