The poem For Precision was written in 1955, the year of my birth.
Yet I go on from day to day, betraying
the core of light, the depth of darkness-
my speech inexact, the note not right,
never quite sure what I am saying-
on the periphery of truth. Uphold me now,
pure colours, blacks and whites, bells on the central tone,
middays, midnights. I wander among cross-lights.
Let me be sure and economical as the rayed
suns, stars, flowers: wheels let me fall as a gull, a hawk,
through the confusions of foggy talk,
and pin with one irremediable stroke-
what?- the escaping wavering wandering light,
the blur, the brilliance; forming into one chord
what's separate and distracted; making the vague hard-
catching the wraith-speaking with a pure voice,
and that the gull's sole note like a steel nail
that driven through cloud, sky and irrelevant seas,
joins all, gives all a meaning, makes all whole.