Momentary mystic

I sit in an optician’s chair,
tested by the flashing of lights,
trying to see more clearly,
but it is no use: I remain addicted to the illusion
that life is fine as it is

finite, filled
with stories of demons,
mystery beating in ancient blood:
but there is unexpected trouble
in paradise

I shout at the sun, suddenly,
and slide right past
the fundamental point

Then, like a moth trapped in a window,
wings outstretched,
I realise that touching the floor
is not a dream

A momentary mystic,
misfit in this wavering world,
I am touched by grace again
and the joy of returning

God passes into me,
and I into him:
we empty ourselves
through the narrow, incomprehensible gate


This is a poem I wrote almost exactly five years ago.