.
.
At first it seemed an awfully awkward
sobriquet: his retinue
said he’d requested them to call him ‘Bringer.’
He specialized
in bringing you to brinks. He collected
hangers-on – coaxing
in them the perspective that by
hanging on and in they could
inspect whatever next and necessary
dawn they’d need:
and they would always need another one
of those. The brink
they brought me to was not a rift between
the night and day,
.
or poetry and prose: the lift they
taught was what it meant
to generate a breathing thought. Only
then might proverbs once
again begin to reign, only then could
Word approach the Flesh
to gird the cosmos with its latticed diction,
syntax, joined ecstatic
differences: the gone, the here, the
old, the new, now steamed
into a life-begetting stew, to
swallow which would be what
a Communion symbolized, and was: the sole soul food –
.
the stealth and wealth of soul, the
art the heart imparted. I’ve
no idea, of course, if this is what
they had intended to convey.
All I can say is by the time I put my
pen away, they had departed.
I nearly said summarily. Assonant with
verily. Capricious fizz,
this tic, this busy and delicious specious-seeming
rhetoric.
Elegance is awkward. Is that what
meaning is? An irrepressible
reflex, a spill of speech? Is that
what they had come to teach?
.
.
.
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