The exhaustion of the body, that conglomerate
Composed of interdependent lives and lies, rules.
Within the body, lesser lives come and go continually.
Lies speak for them. Little lives support the lies in gratitude.
Lies are elves, elves are words and thoughts, ideas
And stories most of all. Even if body ever encountered
A story wasn't a lie, doubtful, I never knew a lie wasn't a story,
No matter how small. We nestled in the dark, cloudless morning
Before even any predawn glow, the soft light,
Like a thin shawl, just the latest waning moon
On the stones outside our window. We were awake,
Another poem, the lives in us, the elves in us,
The restless conglomerations hugging each other.
How many inner lives left or started overnight, the elves
Never said, being fairies always ready to alight like parasites
In another worshipful conglomerate somewhere else,
Where they could once again demand death before dishonor,
Actually being the slogans they pretended to present
On behalf of the others but being the others as well.
Their current whole body, this just passing, past morning,
However exhausted, still breathed and moved, stirred
Myself and my companions--good morning, good morning,
I love you, I love you, too--however tired themselves.
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