Kiss my face again.
Sign the treaty to end the war
between my nerves and brain.
If once a sudden ease may win
above the havoc, through the din –
this battleground, where sky is skin –
why, it may do again.
No, there is nothing old,
heart-broken, sick, though I lie tired,
tired of the knotted bone, the cold
gout of blood, the deafening breath:
the heavy cast-iron gate of faith
that there is more than just a path to death:
tired of the cold.
Kiss my face again
(I hear the laughter of water and grass)
and love, remain.
Forgive my wearied wearying mood.
Six years of grace have well withstood
a tendency to sink and brood:
and they will do again.