Ad altare Dei
with the organ of dawn.
Like a pagoda aflame,

At times
I hear myself thinking
like a spider dreaming
a web made of glass

The hymn of matins
I intone
when I set out in the morning frost.

How fitting
it would be, Lord
to pitch tents
up here,
on this mount
for you and for us!

Let me stay bound
to the main mast …
let me stay bound with these ropes.

In the pontifical orisons of the forest
beyond the self
the incense of memory rises…

The baroque bronze knockers
strike the door
and frighten the ghosts.

Under your trellises
dripping with elixir,
from the vines of your love
I wallow, Lord…

I would undergo self-splitting pain
to bring you
back to life,
my brother.