And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

And the descent. For your object is experience
A sprout of understanding
From which meaning can unfurl as a vine
In many directions slowly, sometimes suddenly
Rooting deeper here than there, probing rock and wood
Seeking the dark humus of prior lives and seasons
Altered in becoming
And becoming is our only purpose
The ergon from which we arise and to which we return
In every place and time
Bethlehem then, Boston or Botswana