Incomplete

This dead thing moves 

When I touch it. 

Under loving pressure it rocks resistant, 

Pushes gently back. 

What joy in lifting up its hand 

And placing it on me? 

It is my own pulse only 

Against the neck of it. 

No inscrutable inside now 

With workings of desire, 

And to the question Are You Dead. 

Yet gives its silence.

This is a cavernous place 

When every word and look 

I give is answer to me. 

When the fact of the questions, 

Of the doubt and despair, 

Is both their confirmation and their cause.