Those who do not know say
——-it was nothing but a monastic
trick, the old linguistic
fast that brings God closer
——-by closing the mouth
to whatever might be
savored in this world. But
——-it was the words themselves
which he revered, their latent
song. For he had come
——-to regard as blasphemy
the sanding off of consonants
in a mumble, the stamped
——-foot of a redundancy,
the momentary abyss
of a forgotten name, to see
——-as sin the perversions
of loose syntax, to believe
the fork-tongued serpent
——-must have persuaded Eve
to taste, along with the apple,
anacoluthon. Later,
——-he would chastise himself
for missing the accord
of vowels in an otherwise
——-well-turned phrase, for
the rhyme of incidentals, or
the necessary pause,
——-for breath, mid-sentence.
He would spend hours
in the shade of a stone pine,
——-scoring observations
about the weather, another
ship’s arrival, the fineness
——-of this olive oil, composing
as much for rhythm as for sense.
Hence the explanation
——-for the first miracle—
the spontaneous hymn—
and for all the others after.
——-Of course, they thought him
mad, could not comprehend
his long delay in
——-daily conversation, his
rosary intonation during
the small talk about dinner,
——-the harbor, rain. They grew
cross, gave in to ugly
whispering about him.
——-While he, devoted in his way
to the word, to its perfection,
gave up matins, and then all
——-common prayer, and retired
from the profane,
muttering world, to the
——-reverent hush within
a grove of pines—there
to measure out the rest
——-of his days, and never
to speak again.