in their inmost rites—

they endure the tense nerves

through the moment of ritual.

I endure from moment to moment—

days pass all alike,

tortured, intense.

This I forgot last night:

you must not be blamed,

it is not your fault;

as a child, a flower—any flower

tore my breast—

meadow-chicory, a common grass-tip,

a leaf shadow, a flower tint

unexpected on a winter-branch.

I reason:

another life holds what this lacks,

a sea, unmoving, quiet—

not forcing our strength

to rise to it, beat on beat—

stretch of sand,

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