Faith

We who see, who rise above the world,
Finally grasping it as globe,
When the cool arch of the land
Rises into the bridge of itself, not itself
For the paths and the mountains and the trees,
But itself in the long languor of the bath
Of blue and the vision of the clouds, feel
The outline of the world present not
As world but as world of the world,
Containing the world and yet,
And yet, yes, holding it back,
Diremption split in the divided veil of self,
Which veil itself unveils the world,
Lifting the veil of grace,
Keeping us with the face,
Ensconced in an eternal lord. Lord
Who shiver with mountains,
But are not the shivering, directing the process
Of growth and decay, yet neither the growth
Nor the decay, just atom's pulse,
Just the pulse of the process
Coming into vision of itself, really myself,
If I am myself, but since I am not, more,
Keep me in the credence of the path
That lays itself beyond the path
And in the globe of paths,
Keep me in the dream
Of consciousness, hold me in the fate
Of an unrolling chance. Because this is the world:
Light and books, the things I use, their use,
The words they continually spit and the people who spit them,
Redemption in the view of all these things, which view itself
Unfolds.