Who are we gathered standing here
Upon this opalescent sphere
The universe through us appears
And sees itself as many

It works upon its own brute forms
Through the perils, through the scorn
To reach a point it will still mourn
When the day is done

But mourning is the secret gift
The one we will still learn to miss
If we could deadhead to the mists
We would not know a thing

This poem is not satisfaction
It is not mal or benefaction
It is the culminated action
Of the thing that is