To Marianne Moore


If the idea of immortality is excluded,
There remains dust,
Grass,
Water that forms puddles,
The branch from which the bird sings,
A certain mystery that reason
Supposes a fleeting shadow.
There remains, in the end, life,
The room where a woman pulls on her stockings,
The other room, perhaps adjoining,
Where a couple undress
And embrace, and afterwards
Say to each other:
We shall not die.


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To Marianne Moore