The unrepentant verse stands alone for a while as often monks do making allowances for merging Anytime now. Will the monk's beggar ways allow transfiguration to go on, as if transfiguration is a mere word, heavy tailed, light to the deft-hearted and somewhat tired of bequeathing hope to the beggarly woes of an unannounced monkish herd relying on a sign, on a blip from heaven, to bring a renounced gladness to the many many begging bowls? The hole is a hole and the punctured soul remains holed up in big words. The unrepentant verse howls to escape this nonsense and stands.
Two unmediated lies
Whistle bound, the hereafter will forego
Preparation if the solemn is to undergo
Change; grease on the forehead will mark
Acrimony, heartbeats will measure change
Of grace, and the torn reminders of a
Rapid fall from the past are markers of
A gainsaid triteness opposing lunar falls
And galaxial proportions. Such is the grip
Of lava on the hush of dawn; such is the
Slip of tongue that gives verse its hold.
Arguably the mist is down and out trying
To find the graver consequences of its
Mooring; cantankerously held in arms of
Sublime dispossession, the mist is filling
Up in elegant containments, in ravines of
No delight, in slats of dearness, crannies
Of slight, catacombs, visitations at night,
Culminations, derivations of a heaviness
That reverses the meaning when it has to,
Otherwise it is quite content to stay plain.