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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.

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