Progress

If I think that everything is a mountain,
Because buildings ascend to the tower of sky,
And somehow the sidewalk mounts its concrete,
With people who lasso and pick these unfathomable depths,
A million specks that make their slow way up the heights
Where every human prospect disappears,

And when I am ever weary,
Since my feet slip like gravel their perch
Of precipitous rock, my whole body scrambling
For dust and clinging inward and upward of itself,
As everything moves from its truth towards the infinite climb,

Only the thought of doves brings me rest,
Doves who spread broad wings and contain
Space and time in the place of their flight,
Leveling the planes to a flashing snow
That falls like Christmas over the earth.