That blind man by the bridge, who is as gray
As a forgotten country's boundary stone,
Might be the thing most constant and alone
Around which stars are turning far away:
A centerpoint in isolate repose,
While all about him postures, strays, and flows.
Perhaps he shows a pathway to the just,
Beside which other paths look snarled and curled,
Or keeps an entrance to the underworld,
Invisible in superficial dust.
