Psalm 84

Blessed is the human who finds his strength in you:

highways are in his heart. {← I like to read, ‘in his heart, he knows the way home.’}

This is a large land

spread underneath the placid oars of light, outrowing –

the furthest range is faint and almost bodiless,

just the remote condensed,

half-lit, half showing

through sharper desert near at hand,

a sawed off blueness on a mist-edge.

My eyes grope for the interval of a car’s headlamp:

lone motes of light wind through the dusty, pallid nebulae

of gorge and ridge,

a way I know by heart.

The map that I could draw by hand

thrusts hidden through this haze –

and I look out from hidden logic,

answering with all I am.

My lamps are small.

And every day, I change.

But in my heart, I hold that way

through what is changeless and gargantuan.

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