It has come clear,
that man, stretched out so bold
on his ground,
is so much lonely,
anywhere.

With his far-away
night yearning for grace,
and his crossing oceans
to find himself in all height,
with senses that come to him
like a swarm of locusts,
giving him power to use
as part of the oldest brain.

To him, there is never a lost time
or inhabitants of that time,
unplaced and unattended,
and no particulars
that play out his span
to some dread conclusion.

The breath he gives
is the great, already occurred,
and nightly beginning world.

He is the drone of the universe
which cannot be silenced
by failing pulse or failing prayer,

stretched out so bold
on his ground and yet
so much lonely,
anywhere.