At the base of the mountain, at
The point where the folds of her
Bosom, like furrowed satin, tumble
Downward into graceful, flowing rivers
Of rounded foothills, and
Join the darkening flat-pan below,
There is a place
Where one can sit alone, or stand,
And under the flickering faces of all the stars
A Presence, dark and holy, feel it
Descending out of vast spaces,
Out of chaste silences –
Something like the Mystery of this life…

Inclining like a kiss
It strains into fingered pierce-point
To rive ribs partite, then
Brand all labored breathing with
An effulgence of song
– set a holy rumor through
The stagnant blood and ashen
Members, unto the
Final, rapturous rest of all things.

“Master, it is good for us to be here.
Let us put up three shelters.”


Oh God, and yet…
“He did not know what he was saying.”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s