In becoming the tiny truth that
Pretends to see the distance in
Believing the littlest and the stone.
It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon
Night, in giving vapid vent to the
Inner dark and the outer dark.
It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.