WEBVTT

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Well, I want to
read the last poem.

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I've depended on these
things already formulated

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partly out of lack of
assurance about being

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able to cut loose for
very long from them,

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partly out of the assurance that
that's the kind of occasion it

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is and I shouldn't try to
talk my way around not having

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written poems.

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So I read them.

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And I'll read one of the
last here and remind myself

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and you and I see people
I hope to converge

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with in the gathering
afterward at the Center.

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But this is the last.

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And instead of starting with the
expression of gratitude, which

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is real, I put it in here.

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Glad for the chance to come
and what's really exhilarating

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is to come back.

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I was here before
and made it again.

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Well, I want to read this poem.

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It's called "A Dedication."

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We stood by the library.

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It was an August night.

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Priests and sisters of
hundreds of unsaid creeds

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passed us going their
separate pondered roads.

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We watched them cross
under the corner light.

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Freights on the edge of
town were carrying away

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flat cars of steel to be
made into secret guns.

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We knew, being human,
that they were enemy guns.

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And we were somehow
vowed to poverty.

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No one stopped or looked
long or held out of hand.

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They were following orders
received from hour to hour,

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so many signals all strange
from a foreign power.

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But tomorrow, we said peace
may flow over the land.

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At that corner in a flash
of lightning we all stood.

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That glimmer--