without her, you die

    I spent most of yesterday alone, closed up in my apartment or at the ex-house, hiding from the world. I read more of The Brothers K, including this poem, (which is claimed to have been written by a sixteenth-century seamstress named Anjana):

You hide your heart from the Dark Lord's arrows
Then beg to the be the post that pierces His ear.
You dodge the dagger that would spill your blood
Then ask to be the pen in His hand.
"Bring the wine of love!" sing the hired qawalis While in your vineyard grapes rot on the vine.
"Grind me to dust!" they wail, as you
Bathe, then carefully dress for dinner.
Singers sell yearning like courtesans their favors.
Is this rented noise your refuge, O king?
Anjana says: Empty prayers are the smile on the face
Of the assassin. Arrows still yearn in the
Quiver. The ink still yearns in the pen.
The dust lies at your doorstep.
The Dark Lord listens.
and one of those lines that haunts. A group of ballplayers are talking about space.

"[Doctor Dave asked,] 'And how would you describe the relationship between planet Doort and el sol?'
Gil Jarrel: 'Warmly.'
Jim McGeorge: 'Distant.'
No Last Name Darrel: 'Essential.'
Warm, distant, essential. Which is it?' asked Doctor Dave. The pen pointed.
'Boaf,' said Jimmy Sims. 'Sun's like a woman, Dave. Too close and she'll burn ya. 'Thout her you die.'"