By being nearly a sun,
noticing the hawk on the night-paved road,
standing beside,
for the quietest moment, its catch,
its momentary partner on Earth,

Then, to the sky they soar,
and I travel to sit,
my body a walking throne of gold,
and oftentimes a blanketing white straw,
woven by the hands of a great lit moon,

Standing, slipping past the timepieces
whose preservations have kept them,
those past railroad watchers,
the standing, nearly ghostly occupied ones,

What are they erasing by their pacing,
and their twisting of curly locks?

I felt one evening
that I was that small boy,
near the Egyptian temple, now unpainted,
its festive prayers to the Gods,
carve-built, petrified,
generous and unconditional,
not leaning as pages do,
or swaying as emotions can,

Standing, as though dropped down
onto the point of a plumb,
And from its intrinsic desire to be straight,
it swayed looking,
perhaps peering for thousands of years,
until its praise was finished,
completed as still as the breath
of a mouse found by a hawk,
as quiet as the eyes whose wings
dipped to obey Noticement,