I swear to you my story is not empty,
though every day my life runs out of me.
I have walked city streets,
worked at noble tasks,
loved women—
sometimes too much, more often too little.
I have used no weapons save words.
I have addressed the seasons as my peers.
I have praised my existence
while cursing my creator.
I have drunk his wine and spat out his wafer.

How am I to tell you of
the violence I have done to myself?
There are no shapes here—no colors.
Have you ever taken Times Square Shuttle
first one direction, then the other, and back again,
afraid to step onto the platform?
Have you ever awakened in the morning
with the smell of the night still in your nostrils?
Have you been abandoned even by creditors
and stood alone, confused by the wind?

I have seen the Carpenter, cold and still
in a pine box of his own making,
sawdust clinging to his beard.
Tell me, Carpenter, which endure longer—
works of hands or works of heart;
which has more power—
worship of the spirit or the flesh.
Is it so far from 42nd Street
to St. Thomas Church?
And doesn’t Trinity still stand at Wall Street?

I have cursed my existence
while praising my creator.
I have eaten his wafer and spat out his wine.
I have seen the whole machinery of Earth
lifted to receive a blessing,
and go grinding on obliviously.
I also have been lifted up,
only to crawl back near to where I started.
And still I swear to you my story is not empty.
For even if a light goes out,
what once was lit is remembered,
and darkness never is the same again.