How can I help you when you all want 
different things— sunlight and shadow, 
moist darkness, dry heat— 

Listen to yourselves, vying with one another— 

And you wonder 
why I despair of you, 
you think something could fuse you into a whole—

the still air of high summer 
tangled with a thousand voices 

each calling out
some need, some absolute 

and in that name continually 
strangling each other 
in the open field— 

For what? For space and air? 
The privilege of being 
single in the eyes of heaven? 

You were not intended 
to be unique. You were 
my embodiment, all diversity

not what you think you see 
searching the bright sky over the field, 
your incidental souls 
fixed like telescopes on some 
enlargement of yourselves—

Why would I make you if I meant 
to limit myself 
to the ascendant sign, 
the star, the fire, the fury?