All night we pour out bitumen;
by day we mark out new lanes, construct
the avenues of better days,
the now-not-yet of our ways.
We close our eyes before the promised land;
passed over, we pass over the times
when paddock became mill became smelter.
Not done with the smelter yet, and yet
when the day is done, we wash our feet
after kneeling and washing
the paths for all feet. This new command
we half-receive as ash turns firm as clay.
The Consolations of Writing 