as you stand
at this end of the bridge which arcs,
from love, you think, into enduring love,
learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come—to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth
which tells you, here,
here is the world.
This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

Galway Kinnell, “Little Sleep’s-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight”