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.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
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Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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