Under the dome-sky oneness translucent and unincarnate as thought, blank as unburnt light, the hope of thisness chokes in nebulae of beetles, sand grains, hydrogen atoms.

Gnosis blurs, pits the achilded One against the unfathered Many. Asks, ‘‘Who could hear each song in the All Song?”

Yet the high sun has lanced down. He washes each square inch of earth with clear sight, rays through needle’s eye, kindles motes with all-fire, searches out my pupil and graces even me with light.

Articles by Mark P. Shea

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