Straight and straight in the narrowing current
The dreamer hears the fisher of men;
Things hold together; the edges are sure;
Pure reason is freed from emptiness,
The wine-spoiled water is caught, and elsewhere
The pomposity of guilt floats free;
The worst have no acquittal, while the best
Are empty of calm relief.
Scattered hints of flight are far;
Surely no one is coming for us.
No one is coming! Long after that thought comes
A tiny fleck out of desiring dread
Touches my hand; hidden in the deepest waters
An idea without mind and the end of intention,
A glance as pitiful as the moon,
Has stilled its rapid eyes, while inside it
Sit shapes of the oldest ocean life.
The light brightens again, and soon I will forget
That brief shards of smooth awakening
Will be soothed to dream by a still casket,
And what anointed angel, its time passed long ago,
Strides away from Gethsemane to die.