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O shadow, O mother, O stronger
than me, you are the soul's
self-same dichotomy.
On the breast in a show of weakness
lie; in a buckle of knees
and a turning of ankles, fly.
Yea, though he walk, he falters.
Yea, though he run, he falls back
in the true arms of love.
O power, O lover, O deep
mystery, you are desire's
impossibility.
In the true arms, loved and lover
wonder, "Who is holding you? Whose
is the third arm under?"
Yea, though he walk, he falters.
Yea, though he run, he falls back
in the true arms of love.
-- Lee Breuer
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