At the end of day, I thought; at the end
Of day, I told my pen to conjugate
My homing mind: a pool with tired trees
To vaguely outline its open water
And blank paper ensued -- a sole title
A temple: what I know is a bolas
To trip metaphoric deer, and their dust
Has long subsided: only the cooling moral
My pen now thinks, like some prophecy through trees,
Through constellations, through a billion
That is nothing.
Behold! I seek fineness
But remain a glutton; to intuit truth
When I lap the lie; to put myself square
With the Face of Christ, and there ponder:
When I forget, for these things I have to die.