Whose will decreed this slash of sea
Would frame this sun in gleams of green?
What plan determines stone's decline,
Or shapes in stars, or shadow's sheen,
Or that we track, as clever beasts,
The passing haze of comet's fall,
Or are the glaze of thought on flesh
That sees the need of plan at all?
I know, I know... no plan at all
Is thought by some to be the plan,
And yet what is this sheen of thought
That seems to measure more than man?
Look out beyond the far Far Field,
Beyond the limits of our sight.
It cannot be that all that is,
Is only night on deeper night.
But if that should be all that is,
And all as purposeless as stone,
The heart still sings the body's chants,
And moves the light along the bones.
Perhaps this pattern that we know
As time at slant between two lights,
Is but some dance made to amuse
What lies beyond our blinded sight.
Yet what dark mind could find a gleam
Of pleasure from such turns,
Instead of reading evil
In a countenance of burns?
The countenance of comets,
That the sky at night assumes,
Mutes all equations memorized
On the Continent of Tombs.
To stand once within a meadow,
And feel the hands of wind,
Is ample compensation
For the gift the years rescind.
At length our modern marvels
Are but blots of haze on slate,
That we note with small attention
As we step between the gates,
And dance, to some faint music,
Along the path of day's retreat,
That ancient, ageless minuet
That rounds this sleep with sleep.
Gorgeous, Gerard. Thank you.
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