Many

Is the all-seeing eye perfect
Because peasants are starving Iran,
Just now limping for dying food,
Since the body consumes its own life? Their breath launches out
Like a ship and skims the rush of the western bar,
The harbors they never saw; then the vision dies.

Or perhaps because it expands,
Like swelled gut stretching that last breath
Through all perforations of limbs,
But outward as far as a strong scent,
As far as the void?

But men are climbing mountains, too:
Nepal, Quebec, and, in a tent somewhere,
Someone is suffering. All these "some"'s
Whose accumulation is never enough to make life:
Life is not in the sweetness of drenched bread
With honey, the savour or sear
In which that bread partakes,
Nor in the relish of distant peaks, lakes
From prospicuous towers, wool-bearing sheep seduced
To a swirl of cloud, and arms in a flagrant intensity;

Life is not even in itself,
It is an existential presupposition
Disclosed in the expanding horizon of time:
Now there's a swelling balloon for you,
There's the dip-and-away
Of many things.