Wessobrunn Prayer

Once, there were neither bottled-up fields nor bluebottled breeze; nor trill of pollen, tree nor hill to die on was there there (there, there): not yet our unseated adjustment of dust; no striking star, nor stroke of sun; nor did the moon light, like the grey, scaled nodule nodding off the dead end of a cigarette;               nor was sea seen. No, nothing: neither loose nor bitter ends. Yet there was something sizing up that endlessness, some agency which advertised the heavens’ opening: our ice floes’ flow, our black and smeary snow above              the alps of steel production plants, our rivers’ scalp of fat;  and which said, “Before you were, I am.”   Like that last phrase, you run, like blinding colors through the eyeless world and when the mind forgets itself, you’re there — where what is left to know is left to live.  Fine, hold me in your Holocene: give me a kicking; and the goods,  the martyrs with their hopscotch blood and nails as fragrant in their palms as cloves — a coat of your arms to weather the flustering, clusterbomb wind, which changes, and the tide of time which draws us from ourself and — as it takes time to keep time; it takes              one to know one; it takes — and which draws itself out.   

Already have an account? Log in

Want to keep reading? Join our community:


Support great writing by becoming a full subscriber to Liberties Journal.

Subscribe Today

Free Preview

Sign up with your email address, and access two free articles per month.

We hope you've enjoyed your free articles!

Become a full subscriber for only $50/year, (33% off cover price).

Thank you for supporting great writing.

Subscribe Today
Log In Subscribe

Sign Up For Free

Read 2 free articles a month after you register below.

Register now