IX
The voyage we do not take to the unknown
Becomes the poem that visits us instead.
Its metaphor: two lovers in a bed
Lost to the flesh, exploring towards the bone.
Though one is underneath and one above,
They are one body, one motion and one breath,
Where each caress becomes an act of faith
And every simile an act of love.
Here you struck truth; here you divined a need
In every man, in every woman too
To bare the bone of their necessity,
Give all, hold nothing back, to break, to bleed.
Isolde does the thing she has to do
And drinks and casts the cup into the sea.
IX --
