Despite being deeply moved this morning by Merton's poems "O Sweet Irrational Worship," and "Elegy for the Monastery Barn," and the passages from "Conjectures" about the point vierge, I finished my poem "Prime" as follows:
How the valley awakes.
The Trappists have been up for hours. I wake.
The fell of day drowns out the point vierge
again: the digital blares news, my brain
takes up where it left off -- commit, omit.
The world’s anathema. I cannot sit
zazen or still. My vallombrosa’s rain
is acid, black, and heaven’s concierge
has stamped my stub stigmata red: MISTAKE.