Lying on the Lawn


Pinioned by gravity
Against earth’s carcass, I
View the deep cavity
Of midnight sky:

Matter no matter then,
Against the skull
Feel, too, the mass of men
Exert their pull.

Each a weak freedom gives
To walk, to run—
Weak for the mind that drives
Clear of the sun.

Westward Canopus sinks;
The tree unhurt
Turns east, the plant that thinks
Tears at the dirt,

Feels its red sap of thought
On mansoil bleed—
And still the wounded root
Of will unfreed

By its own act of life
Chained to the ground.
Love itself twists a knife
Hard in that wound.

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