You may be right, divinity, everything is nothing alongside You. You will crush me, if so. There are barer lands than mine, without water. The corn there is starveling. The city, elsewhere than here, smacks shells between two bricks, as with meatless walnuts.
Some mornings are pregnant.
I want them with an earthly hunger. Some are polished sea shells, nautilus, or fragments of abalone. They plumb me with an earthly joy I am lost in. There are bare leaves elsewhere. They have no memories of times together, evenings in the smell of grapes, or with carved wood of You splitting at the cheekbones with age, or in birth or death.