To pray and think, in truth

Are a drawing

The trace that gives form to rhythm

Gives music accompaniment

To humble lives, crossed by pride


The second act of life’s tenor

Is a returnal

Though never in cosmic sway

But in the infirmity of a pencil


Those who believe they hear at a distance

Entranced by what they hear

Will they not be entranced by their own arrogance?

Will they not give all to this destitution of fear?


Is it pretentiousness to believe

Is it pretentiousness to leap across ages

Perhaps with an idea, perhaps not

In the end

Is it not the infirmity of a pencil?


Across a field, hung with the spray

Of nothing but forgotten children’s play

He asks and asks again

Not to die away

Those who trace the fading day