V. 2. / 137.) Sent, And In Being Sent Chosen Of The Light . . .

Sent --- and in being sent chosen of the light

Held to the brightly shining mirrored shore.

Our hands are sifting through the dry sea wrack

They play in the hard seaweed finding empty shells

Turning over the former homes of our lies

The amaranthine lines of our purple seashells.

We sit and rest, yes, --- or, do we lie down and die?

We neither know, nor care, or understand, or see

For life for us is the same as death

And every hard place the gate of our escape.

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