Only sky knows,
And doesn’t say,
All the forgetful Westerns, the breezes
Perpetually pulling at the people’s ideas,
Making them long and stringy,
Cellulose on canvas or film,
Placid as the lasting image in paint and
The effort of forging the rest
Like the sky in her active listening.

Bank for flocks or
Blankets for knees
Who must soften the ground
For their hard prayers to come.