a monk inside their cell – where the walls
are made of hands – having spent lifetimes
practising the taste of curses
– whispers – stones – bread –
endeavouring to do them justice –
having walked the geography of foreign
fingertips – having made sore
those feet desiring to walk unshod
up the slopes of all of them on the way
to holiness – and at the end
having travelled back through their bewildered
eyes and stories to what was imagined
as a self – only to find that there was
a luminous nothing – was itself
as thrilling and eviscerating
as redemption was always reputed to be
– in the best stories – having been stripped
of all illusions – beneath that cloud
when the downpour broke – when skin slid
away and creation lay unclaimed –
stretching away to the very
extremities of all perception –
having drunk the wind in all
its coldness – having been shown
that all was lost and recovered – all
was unselved and instant – having known
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