Holy books, said my friend, angry,
there’s no such thing. Books,
books: let them talk
to us about books.
It was a hot night.

    At noon light rips
through the room, and everything’s clear:
over the holy we’ll put a transparent
grid. From now on we’ll examine it
with a critical eye, we’ll see
the holy, crisscrossed through bars:
iron or a mathematical passion.

Will this make it look less
holy? Now it’s evening.
It could be a mistake,
our own.

But the grid should be placed there. With courage,
with care. It’s time to preserve
the wreck of holiness.


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