Recollections of the New Jerusalem

The phosphorescent green light fills the line
along the boundaries,
The purple we were not supposed to see
bathes the shade,
The angels in the air are finally visible,
As the rays from deep in space unite as light.

We too are not discrete, although it seems so
to the mind;
We too seem the balance points on crowns
but there's one sun
To fill the contours on the ground with black and white
And play the higher waiting notes inside the seen.

In my world, things speak without talking.
In my world, there are no singers, only song.
I am no more alive than words or pianos;
thought is sky and crystal echoing.
Thought is light, and I am eyes—
shape is holy, in the seeing.