Of Mere Being

The palm stands on the edge of space, The palm stands on the edge of space, In the palm there is no more My, in its clasp With a quiet, sad abstraction. The sun’s heart, Perceived as beauty, withers but there is no sorrow.

The palm stands in wonder beside the rubber. The grass quenches about it with calm, Calmness fashioning itself through the fleeting sound, There is a silence that says this: No networks contrary to that which was known.

The intent is the stillness that is space, The gentle certainty, without measure. So be it, a surrender of day and night, Goes prior to form-craving grasping of articulate thought That moved beauty down.

• Wallace Stevens