Out of my mouth God said, be less.
I looked at my hands, which were not my hands.
My heart had been one hard black syllable
Then it was not mine,
My spirit was the spirit of flies
The death was mine.
God was a ringing in my ears
Outside the body it was August in full chorus.
into the rapture of elements.
Burning is what light becomes
I was a living thing ablaze
Writing this poem was an attempt to get at the experience of having one's self consumed by some kind of ardor. In the poem, religion happens to be the particular vehicle. In my life, it's been other things. But all forms of ardor seem to me to be essentially the same—equally miraculous; equally destructive. It's a space I keep trying to write into, and out of, over and over again.