All others talked as if 
talk were a dance. 
Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet 
would break the gliding ring. 
Early I learned to 
hunch myself 
close by the door: 
then when the talk began 
I’d wipe my 
mouth and wend 
unnoticed back to the barn 
to be with the warm beasts, 
dumb among body sounds 
of the simple ones. 
I’d see by a twist 
of lit rush the motes 
of gold moving 
from shadow to shadow 
slow in the wake 
of deep untroubled sighs. 
The cows 
munched or stirred or were still. I 
was at home and lonely, 
both in good measure. Until 
the sudden angel affrighted me—light effacing 
my feeble beam, 
a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying: 
but the cows as before 
were calm, and nothing was burning, 
            nothing but I, as that hand of fire 
touched my lips and scorched my tongue 
and pulled my voice 
                                into the ring of the dance.