Out of night’s easy dwindling,

this gentle-ungentle thing comes out 

stippled with mercy,

its trickle of jaw petaled 

by a sacrificial goodness

that in some soft tomorrow

would have bloomed 

better, would have hurt very good.

But glory, glory 

has a tongue, 

prickle and pink and 

quivering heartland, 

and it is so sweetly little when it 

licks, and today knows 

only hunger, only sun.