Perhaps the reason we work so hard is the same reason the beaver must always keep gnawing down trees, Otherwise its teeth which never stop growing curve back into its jaws so it can’t eat and dies in agony, Except what keeps growing in us is not our teeth, but our knowledge of death — our own and everyone we love — which keeps gnawing at us, And like ants, bees, termites who can’t help themselves and are forever busy, So we, too, are caught, caught in a desperate work routine from which there is no escape. We can’t help ourselves, although poets try, Although composers, dancers, actors, photographers, potters, painters, sculptors, singers, musicians try, although saviors and bodhisattvas try, although beautiful cocks, tits, cunts, buttocks try. . . .