I live my life in growing orbits
which move out over the things of the world.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt.
I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song.
His gaze has grown so weary from the passing
Of bars that now there’s nothing it can hold.
It seems there are a thousand bars around him,
And, out beyond a thousand bars, no world.
Revolving in the smallest of all circles,
The sleekly powered footsteps’ mellowed pace
Is like a dance of strength about a center
Wherein a mighty will stands stunned in place.
Only at times the pupil’s soundless curtain
Is reeled away. An image then will start
Inward through the taut silence of his sinews
And come to nothing in the heart.