A monk, the monk, ignites these corners with brilliance,
studies rigidity and resilience,
establishes poles of the former in this one,
spins elastic webs in dank removes of that one,
conjugates sound to cascading millionths.
A monk, the monk, looks up into the starry vat
and contemplates the divide between sense and scat.
Some say he’s a nut, but he calls it tact.
You ask him for reasons, and he’s matter-of-fact:
“It’s coz the Universe is filled with noise like that.”
A wedding march for Jack and Jill Horner,
wordless condolences for the latest mourner,
a ghost of melody from an Attic paean,
now dressed up in robes of urban neon,
which a monk, the monk, reclaims from every corner.
[Previous: Book of Faces]