I dreamed of myself as a light following
A greater series of lights, in a particular
Pattern of circles—

A veritable sense of a spiritual
Architecture, as in the shell of a conch,
Or what is sonic in the soaring arcs

Of language-—
What Rilke’s monk exhibits
In his painting—

Brushing the luminous colors
Of the ineffable in words.
Transcendence isn’t tangible, or tacit,

But a glimmering,
As a ray of light, or the single wave
In one ripple of water after another.