For S. J. Kimm

We are weary and silent, There is only the rhythm of marching feet; Tho' we move tranced, we keep it As clock-work toys.

But each man is alone in this multitude; We know not the world in which we move, Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy, Level lands of tenuous grays and greens; For our eye-balls have been seared with fire.

Only we have our secret thoughts, Our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive, To the very fringes of our being, Where light drowns.