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Sara in Her Father’s Arms
Cell by cell the baby made herself, the cells
Made cells. That is to say
The baby is made largely of milk. Lying in her father’s arms, the little seed eyes
Moving, trying to see, smiling for us
To see, she will make a household
To her need of these rooms—Sara, little seed,
Little violent, diligent seed. Come let us look at the world
2008
Myself I Sing
Me! he says, hand on his chest.
Actually, his shirt.
And there, perhaps,
The question.
Pioneers! But trailer people?
Wood box full of tools—
The most
American. A sort of
Shrinking
in themselves. A
Less than adult: old.
A pocket knife,
A tool—
And I
Here talking to the man?
The sky
That dawned along the road
And all I've been
Is not myself? I think myself
Is what I've seen and not myself
A man marooned
No longer looks for ships, imagines
Anything on the horizon.2002
Of Being Numerous, 33
Which is ours, which is ourselves, This is our jubilation Exalted and as old as that truthfulness Which illumines speech.
2002