What transmits our pinch of if? What throws the pale light of words And what catches it? What grinds it Into rote and lets it die, This highest longest note pulled Aloud from the violin of speech? Is there any resurrection to be had? Has this dissolution of desire, Fallen mask and fallen face, Left in thinning air a trace? Triumphs and catastrophes, Forgotten as last week's strawberries, Are fertile fictions we pursue To tears, to grace. Anything To keep the blankness from our face.