That edge of desire, dull now,
but the more dangerous for that:
any pantry chef can tell you it's the dull knife
you cut yourself on. You push too hard.
And every walk accompanied by a rising
falling drum roll, mimicking the hills:
each raindrop tracing down your cheek like a stick
caressing the drum's tight skin.
Far, far, we've come far,
but we have farther yet to go;
the drummer's wild pulse will drive us on
though flowers bleed to life on either hand.