Dallas Wiebe, p.1


Gave we not our hearts away
We would speak no more of Tristan
   and Isolde.
Refused we not our love’s vials
We would sing no more of love’s death
   or its potions.
Believed we not in timeless passions
We would break our violin bows
   and the strings in our throats
That sing, oh yes sing,
   of our yearning for an orchestra
To accompany us off
   to our final humming.
Had we not our tongues untied
   for our foreplay and afterplay
   in the death of our feelings
   for a little season
We’d plunk our lust down
   beside the dust.
Cared we not for our mother tongue
   or listed slightly
   towards the evening sun
We’d all speak German
   and swallow the poison.