Saint

    To Jack Gilbert

You preferred the man
Who found the way, learned
The trick of hurdles
Got the job done.
What of the work of love,
Never done?
What of the chasm
Many times come up to,
Detoured, bridged,
Never filled?
Sometimes, one small man,
Disdaining cleverness,
Measuring the distance,
Leaping,
Falling stubbornly,
The failure
Steady in his eye
As the rocks rise up.
Sometimes, the idea,
Not those sainted bones,
Filling the void.