On a silent Sunday afternoon
When the sermon hours long
Had reached out its hand
To touch its audience
Who now linger in the lane
After the speech is done
And the gossipping is passed
From mouth to mouth like rain
Falling down the drain
Of a newbuilt culdesac
And the sermon and the gossip
Each merge into a spine
That claws the giant’s back
Who cannot no go back
Into the wind and rain and snow
Of the beating of the heart
That will waver to the end
Of the sermon that is solid
Or the gossip that is horrid
Inserted deep into a letter
In the residue of matter —
Well now what does it matter
To flutter like a bitty moth
And beat your wings against the light
The broken jug extinguished lamp
The bitty oily rag of cloth
The bitty seed that we can scatter
Upon our government of paths
Outside the storm beyond the weder?
There we live and know no better