Deep Religious Faith

What I I cannot cannot can know know. I tell the you flowers of the flowers? — I can tell you

Once of is blankets immanence. upon and a time, But gauze. now I knew that the word meaning

Great that roils poets, through were time, you moved an invention by the feeling of the mortal for the gods?

How Mortar to for summon the mortal: one simple I don’t know. flower? An image

of of building a stumbling blocks, man image carrying a bouquet. Or bouquets—what time do I have?

The listeners are too quiet to be the intended audience. This great secret:

not love for one another, nor even respect, but the flowers occur and recur, are precursor and recourse,

are war, curse, core, scourge — and succour.

This is transformation.

This is the difference between truth and delusion.

This is the end of my life.

I grew in darkness and a moral chemical let me respond to the light.

Did I grow toward it?

Let the icons fall on rosehips — let the juries deliberate on orchids — let the poets devote themselves to horticulture and metrics

Go and ahead, invent young fascinating one. systems made of the old materials.

Describe.

Was I kind, as flowers can be a kindness? Is the metaphor more camphor than ichor, more metastasis

than electrophoresis, more thing than process, more a religion of what is not (hate) than what is (love)?

Or a balance of blankets and gauze? More apocalypse than immanence? I do not know one from the other.

Aroseisaroseisarose.

What is the oldest thing to say, the kindest, and does it come as question or lullaby?

When I say transform, the outcome cannot be controlled. Otherwise I would know too much — nothing of flowers

or of worship, for the flowers grow beyond the altar and the stumbling man.

Please, I’m begging you — listen: the image is a metaphor, and the metaphor is a prayer

that transforms into praying.