washing the night moses in transparent owl

these are the blank and crystal tablets
brought to you down from the mountain
where the luminous and branching glass
has fashioned a hovering brain
to view the long eerie sunset of mind
having none of its own
needing nothing but ohms
though the name is alien
to its tonguelessness

these are the transparent pages
put in a book without covers or spine
without readers or mind
without letters or words
but composed purely of surds
for absolute reason
is a pure and empty vessel
of silence a noise

from which all things return
to begin
these are the hollow brimming monads
of nonce
the bright waves which corruscate and bleed
the wild blank keys
hold every door at bay
and swing to inexistent
moorings

how perfect is the gasp