Few scatter names fewer find their face,
In time I'll watch the silt collect,
Drift down and sit at last their peace,
For now I'll chase the wind and stretch,
My hands at glancing shadows of a name,
Yet know far more about their place,
Within the world: their standing and pursuit.

If perfection were my master,
I'd write a poem pristine,
And ten out ten I'd long to see,
One zero,
Out of which the crowd erupts,
One zero,
Out of which my Lord outstands,
Two three,
Regardless I hold firm,
By Him I am pristine.