Fifty years. Nine hundred and fifty years.

Star time. Still they body me,

All of them clumsily.

One cuts towards me, one

A good groper, then one more.

But buried in man's genius I was always there.

My kind of clearness, the near far

Possibilities of locked plans and curves,

The thrust of purity, new

To you but look again.

There is an angle now in the sun seen.

Air's rhythm minds a law.

Think of time's throw, of water, wire,

Glass, sound, impress, shadow, what they do,

What blades and blazes of light, insight,

Might go through what they know.

I am at their mercy, and yours,

You at theirs I have always been here

In the constructed air.