The Cloister of Paul
the problem with nutshells
he told me with heaving
expectant breaths from across
the glass, is not the delusion
of space (he cleared his throat)
that's not it at all
it's that all around (the walls
were once white but never
repainted) the infinite consumes
and cracks every firmament
thick tresses framed his face
with sweat (his hands shook)
and he leaned closer to the
immediate condensation
it is the constant threat
of some new deluge or else
a more terrifying promise
his eyes pierced the fog
before him (metal
clanged somewhere - he did
not hear it)
why, even the Christ himself
cracked his own shell twice (once
with groans, again
with tremors) before
returning to the air
Someday,
When my beard is more
silver
and my tongue has learned patience,
When my eyes become
honest
and my hands can stay close to my chest,
When I finally count
myself less
sinned against than sinning
(when that happens it
won’t
be a dimming of wit),
When I cease my
injunctions to
reason not the need
as a beggar wrapped in kingly robes,
and no longer profess
(between sculpted fragments and words)
merit
apart from its due,
and when the lowest
branches
along those Stygian shores
are yet green in my eye,
I swear I’ll look
back on all that I owe
and surely by then, I’ll know
how to repay all of my debts.