"Perhaps," I could think,
"I will pilot my day
      like a sailing ship—
"On schedule,
      with a plan,
"From an origin
      to a destination,
"Surreptitiously to myself
      applying,
            at each minute,
                  criteria
"Of my relative foundness
      or lostness—my
"Relative success."

But then what
      beyond all, and after all,
            of this proud
                  self-centeredness
Contains me and my journeying
Through will-blurred Time
      and fact-blurred Space?

I imagine that I have perceived
      and Know
            a God who knows me
                  and loves me
                        so utterly
That He empowers me to imagine
      that I know myself to be living
            according to His perfect
                  hidden
                        Plan—

And then my boat of a day
      bumps the dock
            of my sleep
At my destination, on schedule,
      cocooned from the Real
And I pretend that I have not again congratulated myself
On having so engagedly sailed
      yet another circle
            from night to night
Without once having awakened myself to the stars and Sun
Without having desirelessly stared into Being
      to the vanishing point of the Self
To see the real Earth
And the real Sky.

I can keep this up until my death.
These will be my days.
These days will make my life.