In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God…
Wavering candlelight falls
upon a scrap of foolscap
which holds these words:
Of dust are ye made;
to dust shall ye return.
The hand holds the scrap
to the sputtering flame.
Is the hand which wrote
dispirited by the thought?
Say a poem’s only promise
is found in the finished work.
Is there no dignity in stanzas,
no meaning in rhyme or meter,
no purpose in form or scansion,
nor elegance even in whitespace
or well-considered use of capitals?
Of sacred words is a poem writ;
and to the Word shall all return.