Eo Ipso Tempore
April 15, 2019
We cannot wait for birth or death
For truth is found not in the end
But eo ipso tempore.
To the burning cathedral of our mother in Paris:
Should I wait until the deed is done to write of you?
If you die, would it be better for the wonder of your burning to be recognized
After the ashes have cooled?
If you die, would it be better for the wonder of your death to be reknown
After the paint in your remains dries?
If you stay, would that your burning mean anything at all.
If you stand, would that your death be a story untold.
If you burn, would that your burning mean anything as it occurs.
You are burning, you are gunning downward in a topple
On the Seine, the Seine:
A sign of neither life nor death but water flowing, tower burning
As it occurs
There is beauty to be found
To be recognized and reknown
In the act of the burning beautiful, the act of the injury
A juried truth rendered built by man and killed by hand
Of God, of man, while men even now lie below the smoldering
If not breathing in through lungs than out through cobblestones
Out through diptych now decayed
Out through altar laid waste
Out through prayers still hanging, falling, gasping now within the nave
A truth in flames
Built by man and killed by hand
Of God in beautiful display not done, not dead, not cooled, not standing
Mother, you are beautiful, even now, before an end.
Fall, 2019 Issue