Zone

We have struck the regions wherein we are keel or reef.

The wind breaks over us,

And against high sharp angles almost splits into words,

And these are of fear or grief.

Like a ship, we have struck expected latitudes

Of the universe, in March.

Through one short segment’s arch

Of the zodiac’s round

We pass,

Thinking: Now we hear

What we heard last year,

And bear the wind’s rude touch

And its ugly sound

Equally with so much

We have learned how to bear.