how cynical and small is the technology of possession
instead to be as miracles are, rare and high
to watch what the stars dream on a clear night
(o that the self in selfishness would slip from my humors)
for i am still stained by darkness now fled
between the night and the waking of the senses
the clear air that enters into the mind with the light
to know all i have, i have been given, except my mistakes
the infinite kindness at the very root of being
and the names of God: the faces of his children
