Author's Reading (requires RealPlayer)

Only the quiet faculty of seeing
Saves us from death. Not deeds,
Nor the heated arena where they reside,

Nor the part we play in events. Here
There is little to connect me to you,
Here very little. My eyes open

Toward you, and there is yet recognition
In the thick grayness of assembled days,
Blackness of nights. Seeing, as

An infant sees, with the whole earth
Entering, as a great liquid taken in
Through the eyes. Here there is too much. The child

Closes up, and turns to sleep; to sleep
And is then adored. We adore the sleeping babe
Turned from the small parts of eventuality,

The ache of each ending we suffer. Tremulous,
Trembling, in our feeling, in our one great
Limitation, we see one another. This is the call

In our night. In our long night there is
No other call, nor connection. We recognize
Others, we see them, we adore them.