Culture me, if it can be done. Make me a letter
to stand beside other letters, a stone to fill 
the proud wall’s gap. And if I fit, build 
the wall sturdy, a fast and true anchor to trim
this reeling world. Wind me a path, one among many, 
rising so subtly that higher seems flat, the ordinary level 
of what lies ahead. Distance me, deepen me, deem me
a number, a blank of time in all its tenses,
a loosely woven sum where sense can come and go:
sweet tea of the cut lawn, salty beach of noon
in your hair. When the last step tips the wits
of my inclination, when memory shakes open its prize,
when all the division in my body gives itself up,
stay with me, letter to letter, stone against stone,
day among days, then and now absently weaving
patchwork from the fresh cut grass: my finest burlap, 
my first thread, my loom beside the old barn wall.