Telegraphic Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The lightning speaks
On the lone bastions
In solitude
A hooded monk

Against
The background
Flare
The lightning
Roar
The sound
The waters of the heavens
Open their tap
The monk
Raises his hood
Completely over his head
Yet remains
Suffering

You see
My Monsignor
Dusty lizards foul
Crawled on the bastion walls:
Frost
Fell without mists
Bare and raw
And naked as wild
Chill
Sparked
The lightning on the
Tooth of a heaven-hovering
Skeleton
These, these
My Monsignor, the words,
The styles,
The civilization that shades
Off
In part at least
The civilization of day light
These the styles
My Monsignor.