The poem
Call to me to the one among your moments that stands against you, ineluctably: intimate as a dog's imploring glance but, again, forever, turned away
when you think you've captured it at last. What seems so far from you is most your own. We are already free, and were dismissed where we thought we soon would be at home.
Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold- we, at times too young for what is old and too old for what has never been;
doing justice only where we praise, because we are the branch, the iron blade, and sweet danger, ripening from within.