and here below me, God,
is this languid mind roaming,
insouciant, to distant mounds
and back, silent:

no motive nor voyage notice,
only the slip of speech
and elbow over the edge of
my voice and hip.

Help me, dear Lord, to trace
this spirit through its quiet out-
goings and returns
to the tips of my lips.

Brace me, God, at the bends
of my arms, to be as tall as
the distance my lips must reach-
my simple eyes must see -

to follow this mind
away and back to the hill
of here-and-now where we meet
and I think like a man.