December (b)
I want this world
Bright black stone
Marching sky
Soft drift of things discarded . . .
I want this world
To break my heart.
No, not what you think,
Not the cloying grief of loss, but more
The bright sad fact of the world
Of the whole world - -
Its taste, its touch
Its perfect aching presence.
That's what I mean.
The end of mind; and
Baptism in the great dark river,
Just here! Where
The vast and breaking world
Is simply home.
- - Amos Clifford
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