loves of the prophets, ch. 1

How long?--One might transgress. Folly, dampness, a word of
silver, & to it--& saying--Prophet, lift me up. But even in the taking

hold, the rush of clutch& pull, eyes shall not cease in their way, in
the paths of light one takes in. This is sight: a prolonged rasp

of a tongue on the back of one's neck. Afterward, yes, we shall be
called the transgressors, the ears of one another: & one another's

shoulders, too, bearing. In a time of harvest the people will gather
weapons instead (they are laden with the weight of cities--pressure of

fine gold: & they will eat it as if we, their children, would be thus
transformed, able at last to pass through the refiner's fire of our

lord & purify--we of an iron land, swept, caught; we of a wilderness
for which we should have much respect.) We offered our dues.--That no more.