59

Repetens

Always, and still again

you promise healing for my cloven world,

stripping the bone-raw nights

for high epiphany,

stirring the brazen days

with deep-root miracle

of desert rain.

And always, above where runs

the dark sea’s funeral roll, heart

drumming all threnody,

you point to the living flight

(immortal repetens!)

of gulls circling, circling

up new-dawn suns.

One day I’ll surely rise, and face

you at some world’s end, my feet astride

man’s chasm of all opposings, look back

and heal my broken earth:

joining, in one sure glance,

the evil and the good,

the grief and grace.