Thank you, Richard.
That was not only generous but has grace to it.
The oxen have voices.
The flowers are wounds.
And you never just-- you never recover from Tuscany noons.
They cripple with beauty and butcher with love.
Sing folly, sing flee, sing going down.
The moon is corroding.
The deer have gone lame.
And you never escape the incurably sane
who are not butchered by beauty nor hassled by love.
Sing folly, flee, sing going down.
Now it rains in your bowels.
It rains, though you weep.
With terrible tameness it rains in your sleep, and cripples
with beauty, and butchers with love.
You never recover.
You never escape.
And you mustn't endeavor to find the mistake that
crippled with beauty, that butchered with love.
Sing folly, sing flee, sing going down.
Saying maidens and towns, oh, maidens and towns.
Folly, flee, sing going down.