with the melted lead of St John’s festivity,
with the brilliance of summer pelagos,
all the nakedness of life,
and the going beyond and the staying put,
the leaning down and the upsurge,
the lips, the caressed skin,
they all long to be burned.
Like the pine at high noon
overcome by resin
in haste to produce flame
and can’t endure the struggle anymore—
call the children to gather the ash
and spread it.
Everything that has passed,
has passed as it was fit.
And even what hasn’t passed yet
this high noon when the sun is nailed
in the heart of the one hundred-petalled rose.