John Biscello

Hermit,

of singed tassels,

have you raised hell

quietly deeply

within,

to better discern

and negotiate

the holy seethe of flames?

Have your voices,

and their cold blue chains,

grown numinous

through years of patient greening?

Hermit,

how wonderful

that your silence

rounds off

and billows

like golden sheets of birds,

like bales of soft cursive,

unfazed by newsprint,

gossip, malice,

Eden

and other matters

quick to fade.