Aug 312011

All our hours vacillate
Like summer clouds gone sliding by
Clotted, vein-veiled and late,
Froward or deadly shy
Apparitions of the empty,
The essentially empty sky,
To dissipate in an hour's downpour.
All our hours, all our hours.
Our most famous nimbus
And more hallowed halo are
Our only blessings, bare and lent
By God, devil, or doubtful goal
In dance of dread amusement.
Each day we eat and ache,
Something dark for its own sake
Laughs at our glittering fate;
We tend our hours like a wish,
Alone but for some softer guess--
Our heart-happiness uncertain
As divinity's parted curtain.
What remains of marvel here
Of all that drifts to dust
Beneath a sky irremediably clear
Is the irascible particular;
The him of him, the her of her.

Listen to the wind and to me--
Let lending lend in leniency
An open, ageless, real reprieve
(In which unsafe hearts may yet believe)
To all our human tenancy
Defined by that proscenium
Under which we're born and moan
Full of voice and softness,
Full of whispers and of curses.
With the individual soul,
--With that and that alone,--
Wherever soaring moves above
Or going goes in having went,
Be thou communicant.
And this as well I wish and say
To one and all or the all-in-one:
Touch whatever in touching comes,
And, -brave beyond what may be saved
By what such touching has engraved,--
Never one instant's kissing shun.

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