The sky collapsed into a single point,
A needle-eye of pure, unblemished white;
The cosmic gears began to lose their joint,
Spilling the oil of uncreated light.
No adjectives could clothe this naked force,
No metaphor could bridge the widening chasm;
It was the river’s end, the ocean’s source,
A beautiful and terrifying spasm.
The Onomast, now stripped of grammar’s grace,
Felt every concept liquefy and run;
He saw the hidden features of the face
That burns behind the mask of every sun.
The mountain shuddered like a dying god,
Beneath the very ground on which he trods.
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