I craned from pole to pole, with pale
	 Hurrying ear I sought the sound
	 Of a friendship I had unfound,
Lost in the maelstrom, in the gale.

A song no longer sung, but known
	 Down in where the singing starts, soft
	 As an infant's finger held aloft
To hold where the wild wind had blown.

Where my limb was cut there grew
	 A pain; where my shadow'd followed soft
	 No image of myself now crossed.
What I was was lost, was through.

No zone of knowledge could commend
	 Discovery of how I'd begun
	 Nor tell me if I'd lost or won
In this struggle without end.

Now I knew I was lost; lost.
	 Uncentered in the storm that blew
	 Through all that was of me, all through.
Lost is what I was- at last, at last.

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Poems in pieces

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