The Precision

God spoke once in the dark: dead sound
in the dead silence. I turned
in my sleep.
      I slept and sank away.
Then breath by breath I rose
a rigid skeleton
of thought spread over all the
night maintained by faith alone afraid
to waken, nay, afraid to stir
in sleep.

      I, face to face
with my own image.

      Mine, Rock, thought, and
rock. Concrete the flesh - it lay
within me, turned, cold
in the living sheets.

Suspended on cold iron, branded on air.

by Yvor Winters

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