And I meet him here, this
unhappy man dead as
monk and unforgiven by
his own heart, I step

his ground, I live
his walls, I hear
his words and know
his pain

has he gained much
in resurrection, and
his thought living-on
in lines and symbols

in time passing in a
jumble on the page like
hieroglyphs the
rest of us must decipher?

His life as cypher to
his minded God, to
the writing hand that
brought him so much strife.

My own pen makes
answer and perhaps
they commune more
than I can know.  The cryptic

puzzles of faith and
woe, fall short of
all we can forego to
give them space and life.

And so I sit and read,
his sore heart full of
light, his words so bright and
slow his bones have time to gnaw.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem