Hilary

Hilary of Poitiers is in Heaven,
He lets a rope ladder down to my room.
Hilary, I am drinking bourbon.
Hilary, is the ladder a test?
Is it to see if I believe in evangelical grace,
The kind with no climbing.
If so, it is illusion and moonlight.
Hilary, is it language? Or Time?
Creatures Tools? Fabrics of being?
If so, it is illusion and moonlight.
Hilary, I am a Platonist when I drink;
I am illusion and moonlight.
But you make me weep real tears
They fall like oceanic planets gauging the abyss
One follows another like beads or
Emanations, waves, ladders, the Chain
Anchoring illusion to uncalculated bliss

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