When I am tired I long just to collapse
and fall asleep in deep oblivion.
In pain what matters most is that it stops
and cold needs warmth so turn some heating on.
I must eat and defecate or die,
the same as any other animal.
How can I create what rises high
above such messy, frail material?
But yet that question makes the old mistake,
for self or art denying what we are
is unattached and tenuously floats.
How could a disembodied spirit speak
or dance or sing the paradox, the power,
the passion and the truth of human hearts?
Dinah Livingstone collection: Embodiment