Life in one and life in the other is not an ever-
recurring cycle with a unity of movement;

the collared dove that briefly paces the lawn and
then becomes the climb in its own column of air

displays the advantage the second has over the first,
the clouds that drift above and a log border that

keeps leaves off the lawn, in a turning from the first
to the second and in the victory of the second over

the first, is a life found in a house of visitors, who
notice the cobwebs dark in the corner of the ceiling,

who often walk along the outside of the harbor wall,
in salt air, many hand-in-hand, others who look

at the city from small boats dotting the harbor,
ducks above us flying singly in the bliss

of their own wings, the moment when we have
faith or resurrection, movement only if the balance

between the two is wholly and finally disturbed,
as starlings at sunset almost fall into the trees,

the crows’ wings stiffen into a glide, and small moths
flicker up and down outside the kitchen window.