I am sad that I am angry at time and space.
in the new windowed gloom brilliant as through
water sun out of the green trees
the children in the hospital newly singing
the killing of the year by the rock of ages, a
living being
untouched by the weight pressing on his back,
his arm
reaching to grope, to swim, to embrace, larger
than
Atlas, weaker than Christ, bending as he would
naturally
if there were no rock, living without the rock
books and thoughts and news and work a jumbled
path through
summer fields, always old, always ahead, always
to be encountered
in time a drop of water
the April air is clear and it is raining in the
green fields