It’s true: Pilgrim, for you it may be that nothing happens
anymore. That life is this going on all around
you all the time and nothing else. That this land
is blank land. This land is blank land, from California
to the unnamed island. That from an Apollo stair-
case you may leap each morning a moonwalker
to discover the plains of Kansas at last devoid
of evil men. That hallelujah now the cavalry
will ride at your command, crusading backward
through memory, their sword blades trued with
all we know now but couldn’t know then. That
your warhorse’s hammering head hits the source.
That who, you rightly ask, who are the savages now.
And true it may be that the whole of your light
shines forth in this darkening sky, the heaven
between the dot that ends this sentence and
the great cross heralding the next. That the in-
finitesimal is your new glory—and that indeed
there is glory in a certain kind of small. That in
the long night within your bones there hangs
the shard of a crescent moon. That we awaken—
who?—every morning in a tome of tomes of tomes.
That the great star’s immense burning, so faintly
printed on a noontime flag, reminds us all that
it is so. That grace awaits you nonetheless,
Pilgrim. That in this in-between breath, you may
find your rightful home, in these stories that no one
remembers that—without you—no one knows.
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