And dusks like this, up on the meseta
where the storks look down from their chill nests
like surgeons, like questions

I lie in airy darkness, compute my lot:
a body, fragile and vital;
wind, which goes singing among pines;
children, who unmake falsehood;

all my grand failures, the slagheaps
of shucked hours; the pain I've made,
the heart-thunder;

and you, the truest,
who spread your love like water.
prolific and unconditional,

thus guiding me, down the best years,
out of the desert of myself.