if(touched by love’s own secret)we,like homing
through welcoming sweet miracles of air
(and joyfully all truths of wing resuming)
selves,into infinite tomorrow steer
—souls under whom flow(mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one(wholly strange;familiar wholly)dearest
more than reality of more than dream—
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom?yet,among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision,
you ‘ll(silently alighting)and i’ll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars