A. R. Ammons

Come Prima

I know
there is
perfection in the being
of my being,
that I am
holy in amness
as stars or paperclips,

that the universe,
moving from void to void,
pours in and out
through me:

there is a point,
only itself,
that fills space,
an emptiness
that is plenitude:

a void that is all being,
a being that is void:

I am perfect:
the wind is perfect:
ditchwater, running, is perfect:
everything is:

I raise my hand