the unbearable lightness of being

"What are you thinking of, Tomas?"
"I am thinking of how happy I am."


And what with the blunders,
what with the real humour of the address,
the end is sure to be attained,
that of roarous fun in the roused hamlet of mountain village
which pours forth their whole population
in a swarm round the orator,
down to the baby that can but just tottle
and the curs that join in the clamour,
mad with ecstasy at the novelty of some noise
besides that of trees and the horrible clatter of grass...

We talked of things but all the time
we wanted each other
and finally we were silent and
I knelt above your body

a closing of eyes
and falling unfalteringly
over a warm pure country and
something crying

when I was a child things
being hurt made me sorry
for them but it seemed the
way men and women did and
we had not made the world

coming into it crying
(I wanted so not to hurt you)
and going out of it like a sudden
pouring of salt

later, being tired and overflowing
with tenderness
girl's body to boy's body lying
there and wondering what
it had been
we got to our feet very
quietly so that they would
not waken but we felt their
shy sorrowful look on us as
we left them alone there.

All things are one to the earth
rayless as a blind leper Blake
lies with everyman
and the fat lord sleeps beside
his bastard at last
and it doesn't matter
it doesn't mean what we
think it does
for we two shall never lie there
we shall not be there when
death reaches out his
sparkling hands

there are so many little
dyings that it doesn't matter
which one of them is death.

~ Kenneth Patchen