Forlorn, shorn, those clouds up there sheared from life's
end, which is here, while all goes on so step by step I live--
such bloody hands have saved us, naked or sheathed in rub-
ber gloves, such friends have toiled in so many ways to
explain us to ourselves, and the clouds disperse, form, leave
clear sky after them like a wordless prayer--which forgive
me God is nothing like those hints of You so true to my
heart they flee like sparrows--swarming, pecking dirt,
dawns when in bathrobe I slip downstairs, watch out
kitchen door--scared off by my sudden presence behind
glass--those fluffy happy residues