Old Song and Dance
We love as though we know not better. A trick, biology, it claims more worthy selves and gentler aims, And still this doom is ours. We sought late wanderings, and soft light, dims. And then the first embrace, The touch as if those hands were all the world– For such their beauty seemed; He carried gods with him. And these loves, so celebrated, sang, so painted, danced, idolatrized, These seems are but the tantrum of our genes, which we their slaves, embellish– Strunglike puppets, till they break their strings, And all that’s left are our own imaginings. - Kezia Speirs (read on the TTC in July 2007)