Livingness, held in place,
projects the image of a face.
The face itself no more form has
than moon on water or shade on glass.
Yet fathers forth both tears and laughter,
a story of before and after,
which sports itself upon Life’s waters
until the blood–beat rhythm, strangely, falters.

Then, tears and laughter, livingness and face
stumble here and lose their place.
And all things human are here unmanned
at the granite doorway into no-man’s land.

Say, at this parting of the way
where all things hurt you,
what have you learned to pray
that will not desert you?

Here, where you find you are quite deaf and dumb,
what home-made lifeboat have you made/become?