Paper Boy
               for Mead


He wakes up when the papers come, at four,
and rolls out of his hammock into the black air
that, having folded around him all night, now falls away
as he fumbles with the bindng wire.
By remotely shining streetlights
he piles the papers, snaps on the rubber bands,
and packs his canvas bag.
The scooped moon is his fellow.
He turns to her with a strange sensation of trust.
She streams upon his unexpressive eyes.
As he swings the bag to his shoulders
they set off together carrying news up the mountain.

Morning begins to color the eastern reaches.
The moon pales. He yawns. The slack bag slips to the ground.
He lays himself flat on the grass
propping his head on the bag.
Light widens under his gaze.
Light, more light at the edges of heaven!
The streetlight fixes his eyes.
Inside the glassy chamber glows the point.
Staring, he dreams his passing into the glass.
Beyond the glass! He is free inside the chamber!
He is the filament. He is the light burning,
and brightness is loosed
that spreads out and moves, comprehensive,
over the whole world, about to be undone,
shining, shining.

 

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