The fruit is ripe
the husk is yellow.
This is how
the light goes out.

A pond settles in the throat
and grows white lilies
under rasping toads.
The body breaks
against the wall,
the stone partition
between Earth and Heaven

and turns deaf to those in vigil
for the distraction of the bells
that call him to them; it’s almost time.

The air is sweet
with sun-steeped violets,
the warm incense
of decathexis.

The bells peal
in his honor.
They’re singing brighter—
he won’t be late.
Nearer now to those bells;
he is so close to music.


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