In your very own monastery
a small venal monk
is rewriting the Bible
just for you,
sweating through his coarse robe
in a narrow cell.

“For it shall be
that the bow in the clouds
will be loaded, and heavy
with dread, so that when you see it,
you shall think of rain, and drowning;
and the springs of the abyss shall be loosed,
and you shall cry, ‘I am forsaken.’ ”

At the moment
of highest prayer,
you are raptured
and rise surprised
back to your stunted life,

your scribe, Brother Fear, still beside you.

That voice you never heard in person
in your ear, the letters of the First Words
illuminated in gold
so there is no mistake:

“You wept, and shall weep
throughout your days
with no comfort,
for you are the Way In
and the light of your history
is darkened, a plague of black birds
is upon you.”

Awake in the night,
praying, soaked in yourself.
No sound now
but the wings above you.