Buckle
Sometimes the language sings much wiser than
The mind. The mind is left behind by lines
That supersede the poet and the man.
He knows as soon as they are written, signs
From heaven or Nirvana nimbus-like,
Unknown high astral bodies haloed. Since
They prophesy inside him as a spike
Within the rapture of a saint and rinse
Saint Thomas’ doubt away, he knows, scarred
As Saint Teresa or Saint Francis knew,
The raping, piercing of a depth as hard
As resurrection to expound though true.
This insight happens seldom, like the bolt
Of curing on Damasus’ road, a jolt.
~ Phillip Whidden