I would worship if I could
Man, woman, child, or dog,
Strip the desert from my back,
Spill an ocean from each eye,
And like those saints who trust to luck
Sit for years under a tree.
I live now in a dirty city
That prowls the sky and is my shade;
Only a low, uneasy light
Gathers there, a light low-keyed
Amid great spaces and great times.
They soon grow smaller. I forget
What months and years once swam through me
As I walked into their great rooms,
Forgotten rooms, forgotten scenes,
And out in space a statue stands
That will not gloss its meaning. Near
Its pedestal, and on its hands
And knees, a figure, wild, unshorn,
Lifts its head to speak. It says,
“Nothing is unwilling to be born.”
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