It was all the clods at once become 
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack 
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
If I have not found the right place, 
teach me; for somewhere inside, the clods are 
vaulted mansions, lines through the barn sing 
for the saints forever, the shed and windmill
rear so glorious the sun shudders like a gong.

Now I know why people worship, carry around 
magic emblems, wake up talking dreams 
they teach to their children: the world speaks.
The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.