I walk on death, she lifts me in her hand,
her paving spurns my feet with calloused stone
and gives them spring. Her walls and windows stand
a gallery that frames my dancing bones.
My dead clothes clinging snug and softly fanned
fall, sway and whirl in moving, unlive air
on me alive borne up by lifeless things—
embraced, blue-skied, I make them live appear.

While air unliving makes my red blood burn,
and life made dead reverts to living sing
as fuelling my limbs and brain its churn-
ing feeds my dance and lights my eyes to see
life\'s drive, death\'s path—and maker made, in turn
I walk in death, and death walks proud in me.