By David Eide  

A sheaf of paper was his hope He prayed often he wasn't a dope; Dopeness was worth escaping in that hour There was nothing, no personal power. And he climbed the rigging of his own self Spied far off lands by a gulf; swooped awkwardly With graceful birds who showed him all conditions Were merely surds. "Take us from the pains of midnight When light is the deepest shadow" So it became a chant of transformation Competing with furious turbines and elation.