And to this obscurity, o this routine
galaxy of my solemn, prize consciousness,
afraid, not terrified but afraid
Do you sense dark and graceful waves of necessity?
I myself have understood sporadically
the staggering difficulty of the task to embody,
and the fear it makes in me,
and the likelihood of waste, not of time, o —
of being time’s . . . waste . . .
In my birth is whale brain and saint fingerbone
And my soul seems a sheet among infinite,
tho even as it is and was within me, of me,
it was always something within time,
whose circuits could be regarded by common, organic sadness,
clear at the crest of itself, and humble,