122 days is a lot of weight
for the man or woman who would carry them
alone. Even shared among friends
or between whole nations, it’s a lot of days,
a lot of sunrises to remember fruitless plans
and sunsets to recall unraveled appetites.
It seems far too many days to waste
but too few to accomplish something in—
but I forget—
I am always forgetting
those 3 strange revolutions of the earth
in which you lived, and died, and lived again—
Glory is light with weight.
The kind of brightness that breaks scales,
heaviness that is more joy than anything.
Yours be the glory, and the power.
Teach this black-eyed sheep, this stubborn ox,
to pull its 5 percent
like you pull 95—
you, perfected in your suffering,
in the blinding crush of nails
and failing breath.