I nodded. The books agree，

    one hopes for too much.

    It is ridiculous.

    We are elaborate beasts.

    If we concur¹ it is only

    in our hunger： the soiled gullet.

    And sleep‘s airy nothing.

    And the moist matter of lust²

    —if the whole waste of women

    could be gathered like one pit

    under swarming³ Man，

    then all might act together.

    And the agonies of death，

    as we enter our endless nights

    quickly， one by one， fire

    darting⁴ up to the roots of our hair.