The Precision
God spoke once in the dark: dead sound
in the dead silence. I turned
in my sleep.
I slept and sank away.
Then breath by breath I rose
a rigid skeleton
of thought spread over all the
night maintained by faith alone afraid
to waken, nay, afraid to stir
in sleep.
;I, face to face
with my own image.
;Mine, Rock, thought, and
rock. Concrete the flesh - it lay
within me, turned, cold
in the living sheets.
Suspended on cold iron, branded on air.
poem by Yvor Winters
Added by Poetry Lover
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