When at night, in dimness, I catch glimpse
of inner radiance,
I think: how long
can I contain it until it convulses
out of me?
Stay stable and unmoved,
before it figures me out,
and out it goes?
How long, and how well, will I continue
to do things in such and such a way until
It exposes these things as empty:
fragile in structure and devoid of content?
How long before all leave and I find myself
having already been left, before knowing
the meaning of company?
Will I hold it together, elbows on desk,
ethics at hand, principles overhead,
solid earth below?
Will something outside of it erupt
before it does? Or
will there never be a space for it
other than this?
It will stay, as I do, unknown to others
even as a prospect.
Known to me as the only venture–
which I succeed in buffing down
to a pebble.
For men of wood,
women of glass.