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.
