There, amid the wrong middle of this wood, Where God himself must stand and choose Or find himself unable, caught between good and good, Sweet songs that rise from the geese in the dawn 5 And travel without a quaver in the air Until they alight on some rich man's crowded lawn Or empty lot abandoned by all but the wind's stir Some ancient, contemptuous king or passionate Poverty-stricken man cries out his heart 10 And lays his head bare in the miserable dust In eternal revelation of his time-bound character Before the bawdy wind can close the gate.
From the collection "Unimagined Things"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.