We have lamps inside us
Whose light outshines us
Shines outside us
Shrine to holiness
Lazaret of Lazarus
Mage of Montserrat
We are sheep with a wise husbandrist
You are bondmen drifting in twisted chains
Someone is grinning at widespread chagrin
Someone is winning by this felling wind
Silence is telling, loud is the shelling
The dying time and the great forgetting.
My choler, sheer horror at their odd idolatry
They holler like frothing dogs in the hollow it stalks, its haunt below the tree
Where skeletons of hanged men contrive in passing breeze, scraps of fabric hung in threes
Under her boughs craven Druids perform magic deeds
With prayer, what with one does magic need
Who but one who needs to feed
Acts to knowledge despite idiocy
We see their stamping feet
Their strange stampede
Their horned other
No other than the fiend.
With crossing rocks our fires lowered required bellows to higher them
At length at length our felloes rest
We fellows wee fellows at rest
Our feet rest, give thanks for tests
We lived every lesson in the Decameron
His eyes and His watchers cameral
My sun hoared habergeon, gored with old gouges seeking to stop current glories, I do not habitually wear
But bandits and worse wait out there
We do not particularly care
Nor take peculiar care
To ensure the security of our lair
We are drunk from thin mountain air
We who had never climbed anything
Now we are bold mountaineers
Fleet as crop goats, hard as iron bolts
Our throats road thirsty ride whiskey easily
We do not normally drink such
But we are soon ethered by this elixir
What tethers us to the material unfixes
We are sticks in rivers, the river styx is
Far from here and far from mind
Sticks in another log and it sizzles, cracks sicks out smoke
Lit by flame alone images redolent of old time
We decline conversation, recline against boulders in recusation
Exhausted from our climb
Wondering who first ordered the star nations at the beginning of time
A line and a swoop marks the plough, nearby Orion
Lark song rouses dawn, arresting arousing rose gold on the long lawn of the marches
Marsh warblers resound, yesterday is rewound
Light abounding in alarming quality, sounds
Keep one from sleeping but we lie on.
A hill but not a hill to die on
He died and then rose on
The third day, a third of day gone
Before we rise like angry tides, stretching wide
We walk naked without pride, hiding nothing from day’s light, nimble moving
Pimple-backed, nothing waxed
As made as seen, everything simple
Nothing snide, the sky soon pied with nimbus
It feels like Mount Olympus
The blue sky a vast ship and everything in it merely limpets
A scene without limits, only the earth’s rounding skull delimits the image
Nothing dims the image
Nothing like this in Kimmage
Where he hails from originally.
Alchemisland 
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