We Know How Much A Man Contains* Poem by Ronald Shields

Seeds and miracles
A mechanical spirit
The Father, The Mother,
sons of steel, daughters of the revolution.
The will to pause at dawn, in the mist, or ruins
to toast, sing, genuflect
and not know why.
Pity, like some thing in the street.
Pride like some thing in the mirror,
refracted by a lover.
A stick to carry remorse, regret.
Old rags sour with age.
Virgin wool pristine with the memory of youth.
Layers of knowledge, upon knowledge, upon knowledge
-mortar between bricks laid piecemeal jointless
in endless echoing vaults;
and in these recesses
where nothing can touch, light, or hold sway
can we know how much a man contains?

*The Hemorrhage, Stanley Kunitz