In 2063
The roots become him, in their timeless thrall,
In tthe delicate and wormlike
Maybshoots of green
In tthat seem to bind him but which
set him free, loose through the ground.
He has no more need of calculation,
In tlove or money, even
Maybpaltry things
In tlike bread or water; he has all
he wants of endlessly recurring lotus-silence,
which he takes for song, of dark and light,
In tthe lavish shadows, suns
Maybthat drill the rock
In tand liberate the vapor soul,
whatever in the last completes his shining.
He is past redemption, past regret
In tfor petty misdemeanors,
Maybcrimes of passion,
In tcivilized commitments to
those guises which conceal the hungry heart.
His heart is left with only what it loved,
In tand loved entirely,
Maybwoman in
In tone name, the beautiful
redoublings, words he gardened into silence,
which was his last shrine, his Bo tree, blooming
In tin the soil today, its
Maybpetal flowers
In tflimsy and delicious on
his lips and eyelids, palms, the dirt, the wetness
that confirms this world, that speaks for everything
In tnow quick and running, while
Maybhe lords it
In tover, in the Lord-won air,
all men and women in the selfsame stare.