I have no vision for light-bleeding stars
or moons that draw oceans like bedsheets over the shore.
I wish one grain of sand
to become two, then two to one;
I do not the know the coasts,
fleeing from sunrise to darkness
printed by thousands of crashing years.
what thrall keeps men to themselves--
my insulation!
(the devil wants my petty rhythms
and flatters me warmly;
he gives me my own key.)
the divine gift
ha!
I am not so bold to take it
or to know why.
thrust into me,
He makes homes
of the dark corners,
and my hell-spoiled life
speaks of great black expanses crossed.