Distant, clear, down low,
Are lights of men,
From on top of the great lateral hills.
The automatic lighthouse of the oceanic
Island throws-and beyond doubts of
Warning and of safety—a far
Question, question, into emptiness.
And all emptiness, all gravity,
Ultimacy, nothingness, are then
By us felt, and seen. And we
Are small, instant, here.
And time is all round and all
Elsewhere; of which one other island now strikes
Two a.m. in the night somewhere.
Two hours more. Then over
Sierras, monadnocks, lakes, prairies, taiga, ice,
Cays whitened by noddies, seas and seas and soiled
Tarred shingles, lightens a huge sky-
Arch, geranium-red, partly, so that we,
Spiders, blue neon flies, gay birds,
Etcetera, etcetera, in sun, are small, instant, here.
At least now, our bodies close,