For Thus I Leave the World, the Flesh

But what is slow

Asks the small poem

As if to say

There’s no such thing

And think of Hell

And the one God

One at the last

Wrote of in fear

And love—think of

That—love and fear

At the last scene

For what—the slow

Wheels of a myth

That still turn and

Not for one’s own

End—what is soul

Clay Paint

To trace the path
Of the storm round
The globe, to touch
The point it rose

And find the place
Where it would end,
That was the task
Planned by the young

Who thought they could
Seek out the soul
Of all storms through
Their dreams of font,

Mid-point, and loss,
That is, of life
Tied up in tale.
The storm goes on.