From “Book of Hours.”
An excerpt from “The Book of a Monastic Life”
I have many brothers in the South
who move, handsome in their vestments,
through cloister gardens.
The Madonnas they make are so human,
and I dream often of their Titians,
where God becomes an ardent flame.
But when I lean over the chasm of myself—
my God is dark
and like a web: a hundred roots
This is the ferment I grow out of.
More I don’t know, because my branches
rest in deep silence, stirred only by the wind.