My friend, this body is made of energy compacted and whirling. 
It is the wind that carries the henhouse down the road dancing, 
and an instant later lifts all four walls apart. It is the horny 
thumbnail of the retired railway baron, over which his children 
skate on Sunday, it is the forehead bone that does not rot, the 
woman priest’s hair still fresh among Shang ritual things…
    We love this body as we love the day we first met the person who 
led us away from this world, as we love the gift we gave one morning 
on impulse, in a fraction of a second, that we still see every day, as 
we love the human face, fresh after lovemaking, more full of joy 
than a wagonload of hay.