Somewhere a pure act is saving us. Prayer reaches high, a song reaches higher. In every capital, a mother’s love for her child redeems the world for one more day. In a room without furniture, a violin is lifted from its case, and for the hour between shifts we are saved. The poet climbs the sentence, stumbles, falls, gets up again. He does something to the loose rocks on top and suddenly there is a place to stand. For this no one thanks him but by this act we live. The floor is scrubbed until its face shines like Christ because the old woman never questioned life.