The body cannot lie, but its betrayals,
narrower actions, cross even frontiers of night,
and your most delicate treason falls in a quick stroke,
                      undercuts sleep.

Now, if I bodily, sometime betray myself,
the foolish play’s curtain drops on your active exposure,
grotesque as a peepshow, definite as the axe
                      in instant effect.

The toppling high tree lets fall its heavy side
green on the air, goes anyway down to ground
after a clap of weight resting—but we descend to
                      imperfect peace.

Here’s war!—body betrayed, but all nerves still exerted
to rise up whole, grasp the perpetual sun.
Echo the shock, handclaps of fact composing
                      a blackest pattern,

a tyrant pace to dance, clatter of anger
spanking the fury up to publish treason,
ranting and clapping madness, while the dim
                      blood groans forever love.