Things that divine us we never touch:
The black sounds of the night music,
The Southern Cross, like a kite at the end of its string,

Whether I grow old, betray my dreams, become a ghost

or die in flames
like Gram,

On the sill
the blown-out candle

burning

 We are not born yet, and everything's crystal under our feet.
We are not brethren, we are not underlings.
We are another nation,

Long I have seen those eyes,
Alert, astonished, bright,
Turn softly and survey

The movement of my body when I wake,
Hinge of my arm, the shift of hand and throat,
Reminds me there was something for your sake

In the unshaded hill
where you kill
every day I have climbed

Saturday. Early afternoon. High
Spring light through new green,
                                         a language, it seems, I have forgotten,

 Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, litde galaxies, they flash out

In the name of one more leavening
I hoist the flag, the closed eye
of the letter B in cursive here.