I swipe myself again in my rawest spot, my logical dyslexia. I cannot shape up 
            to formal reasoning any more than I can cope with the tax year.

Evasive souls, of whom the wise lose track,
Die in each night, who, with their day-tongues, sift
The waking-taste of manna or of blood:

The cross staggered him. At the cliff-top  
Thomas, beneath its burden, stood 
While the dulled wood 

Chased down, and baited for the kill,
  And naked to men’s eyes,
I struggled blindly a great while

               In my family, a silver cup
               is called a goblet.

               A room with books, however small,
               a library.

Against the burly air I strode,
Where the tight ocean heaves its load,
Crying the miracles of God.

When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And winds went begging at each door‚
And the far hills were blue with cold,

Poetry as salutation; taste
Of Pentecost’s ashen feast. Blue wounds.
The tongue’s atrocities. Poetry

When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And winds went begging at each door‚
And the far hills were blue with cold,

I looked for rest, though without love.
Since I had found a course to run
Deep as a river in its groove