Say that Jerusalem is

Perhaps my words disturb your prayer. Perhaps you, the mystic, need no points for meditation. But I speak of him to Him for you, while you simply pray. Eternity bounds, does not hem, limit us, rule us, give direction, up, then, into His storm, His eye, His calm interference in the mundane. With and without words: we must choose, be chosen. Both. To say little with so much, or speaking, innumerable, yet still say one thing necessary. Out of the many complexes, neuroses, psychoses, metastases, sees, out of all disease and disaster, stands one to come. And standing points above. I think I feel, feel something inside me, bower or brain, coming, about the turn, ever turning to, in myriads, ways without whys, lines drawn over our ignorances, hidden in, neither obscure nor occult, light rather, in light. Him. He is.

You know it. A story has begun.

You know, now, things fade, colors on cloth, even evenings fail into night, which is coming, still stars branch, and in the skull-cap of a thousand year we enroot our seed, between never-endings lay the middle, plications, sin, sun, son sing, song signed, not to fail or fade, would be story, would be tolled, full, filled, meant. Not to fail, not to fade, truth we know, for we are known, are stretched, fixed by means. If we mean to. But you, you did not, did both mean to fall but not to fail, and in falling your way, we but succeed you, without second.

He did not really speak, did you, you saw and shone, bright, dark, hiding, back-minded, earlodged, thought-lost, hest just but standing, no jest, no pose, no to impose, but you were the exposed. You stood out from. Time. Is.

The wound you were did not heal. Signatories. Numbers. Out of time. You appropriated, all, for but one thing. Making. Truth. Is. And you said, ever. Knowledge, knotted-hopes, full striven, in your arms storming, learn.

They say you had no foundation in essence, but traces, echoes, parts only, assemblers, without wholes, spirited words, yet spirit is, is that not a word? Problem of near-belief, teachers had not a key. Versions, only. Foundation riven, you, reft, logical, truthed, passed words, un-pasted, unposted, past juxtaposed. Cut. Words cut through you. Destroyed description and explanation, neither declared, but disclosed your wound, the wound of the word himself. Discard, forfeit. Utter. You behind the words. The logic bit. You bit back. Grapplers. You took our place.

For in all logic, if you can say that Jerusalem is, if we can say, still that Jerusalem is, the place required by logic is yet, and can be found, the assertion of faith, eternity of concern. You, truth and logic became, stripped, meaning. Not to say I have grasped, but in the struggle with truth, your victory was to be grasped. That this too is, is beyond doubt. Proven, in borders of scripture, commentaries, that do not explain the words, but enact them exactly, by being exposed. This is. If this is, subsist, without which truth-less, for accidentals, for appearances, no place to hide. A snow of illegibility, ran the wound, rain wind, ward, cover your words, sposed, desire as if to say the text itself, we only fall from a height, and now we are falling, and have

become so profound, because without foundation, catch us pall as we fall. Poems are snow, whiter words, virgins, martyrs, gentle, contoured by holiness, by logos, by logic without demand but to be true, faithful, snow-part of time, winter answer, dead, wait. The logic that strips away all but what is, strips seeming and opinion, even the nothing, to be the one, immovable, it is. Is it. Is it eternity. Is it snow set bounds in winter. Innumerable snow, unrepeatable words. Universal, singular, unparticular snows, how do you interpret snow or simplify the place. Snow did not extend, but bound, the form, by sheer material, prime, stuff of dreams. You. Glory of the snows, high reflectivity, light without heat, sheer blinding, purity, as if God to Abraham in winter, yours will be as the snows on highest ridged mountains, always. Will be, Jerusalem is. If you wake, wake to this. Snow regal, snow regard, but be regaled. In pieces of paper whiter witness not blank a testimony text, you found you, and said it. Is. Sheer holiness, is. Present, a heart-word, is.

We, snow-parts, perhaps, holding places, scattered yet gathered, drifted, yet still for a time, temporary words, tempting snows, we fell, like you, measurable by adversity, verses, that this is, still is for you, neither symbol nor transport, neither hidden nor shown, but snown, north of the future, where snow ever is. You offered often, eternity, a turn, a word with six sides, snowed, like stars of David, like Jerusalem is. Is, was, will be, has been, will have been, to be. Snowed, starred, scarred, worded, sonned, deepened. Depend. Deeper in snow is he to be. Yea. Not to be, never to be, but always still, is. Pall of snow.

Michael Bolerjack