Our days and nights, how do we use them.
The birdsong in our skin is inevitable.
Handing out a bowl to catch the rain,
We look inside its shining rim and see a face.
Is that house in our head a sliderule only,
So fixed to our lineaments how can we see
That there is no way of doing without its
Lines of rooms, ending where we curl in sleep.
We use them staring, in fact, straight ahead
At an oblong of darkness, maybe a mountain
Or a face turning to meet us.
What other choice is there but to respect.
Defiance, revolution, all such are speed-process,
Will only bring it sooner – the birdsong unheard.
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