In long and narrow and deep spaces,
in steep, high uterine security,
with steeples of spruce and columns of fir,
is the cathedral of newborn antiquity.
The wounded altar seeping myrrh,
bleeds muddied ice and flawed crystal
as reeds and boughs and fallen leaves
ancient mysteries in the stream distill
that, wildly rushing, falling, flying,
leaves pebbles sacrament behind
to dash upon the stones of hell
where morning’s mist is born divine.
Port of Call and other poems. The Caliban Press, Baltimore, MD. 1975.