Telegraphic

The lightning speaks On the lone bastions In solitude A hooded monk Against The background Flare The lightning Roar The sound The waters of the heavens Open their tap The monk Raises his hood Completely over his head Yet remains Suffering You see My Monsignor Dusty lizards foul Crawled on the bastion walls: Frost Fell without mists Bare and raw And naked as wild Chill Sparked The lightning on the Tooth of a heaven-hovering Skeleton These, these My Monsignor, the words, The styles, The civilization that shades Off In part at least The civilization of day light These the styles My Monsignor.