That which is formless only takes form at the speaking of form
That is, the Essence of Isness,
The Isthmus of Thisness or something else untongueable
Will dwell in the hearts of men who seek in themselves their madonnas—
Will dwell in the crook of Her arm, the ell of it,
The glimmer of some being beyond form in form
And the tenderness therein will shatter the child within—
Elousia flitting off into the ineffable swelling up—
This is an Is that yearns To Be
This is an Is that I Am Too
This is an Is that unweans the suckling, pulls it down
And (trans)forms its blind reaching mouth, stretches
The lips all the way to zero and (trans)substantiates the vacuuming voids—
Into Something—
Reach, child, with your mouth for your mother
Reach across the Nothing to your Salvation
And pull it in and drink from it and be healed
Be satisfied, be reassured, be comforted
That fear and desire are beginnings and middles and temporal phantoms leading you to
The Real
Be
As I Am and She Is: a tower, a book, a rock, an icon, a valley, a metaphor, ah, honey,
Be
