Hallowing. Hallowing won’t suffice in this covenant
Abraham’s negotiations wore out. A yellow-throated vireo
in the branches of a crabtree, still stark in early April, warbles, flits.
The surging season uplifts him, mateless yet but en route to the nest,
northward. Inner heavens beckon him. I mean us.
The silent companion you hallow, you court, is your own
somnambulator whose arising innerness would re-echo
Annunciation, amplifying that feast. A solitary
migrating whooping crane flutes his phantom call beyond
the world we attend to & the dreamt-of Temple
of the futurum is lost in a nimbus of Dantean forerhymes, their
thick darkness the backside of the Lord
enthroned there, a consolation
the crane pulls through
unerring.

Days stream with Genesis.

Late thunderstorms        •        breathing clarities.






Stars of the earth.

What do you say?

The buried are always longing for the earth they suffocate under. All.
Veins infused with being.

Our life transpires in metamorphoses. Outwardness diminishes us, our world,
our vision. The Ancient of Days harvests power spaciously,
high-tensioning. Temples he abandons to his ignorance where they thrive
in poetic ruination. The heart
cultivates lavishness, in secret. The world-gulag would imprison us
for it. Our sanctuary is a structure of privacy not from
abhorrence of companionship
(that is the world’s sin) but from tenderness
toward its idiom, its lisp, its new
language we nurse —:

Each dull torpid turn of the world disenfranchises us
from the space we love but sacrifice daily.
Pillars, pylons, the Sphinx, the rising dynamo of the Cathedral
away from the fading or alien city.

Spaces.






What terrifying vastness these interiors occupy
that not even yet
with a thousand years of our sufflations
have we filled them.

Monreale is great. The Pisan Duomo is great. Stephansdom where I suffered is great. The Dome
of the Rock, its mathematical hegemonies,
is great. Ráckeve I just now learned of is great. Holy Trinity
where the poem was given its birth
is great.

Dwelling within these places, we are all bonarges, sons of thunder,
our skywardly open palms afloat to the most interiorated
ascension — pulsating — Inapprehensible.
Inward. Wide open.








                            after Rilke