writing within a cloister

i walk through your cloister. there is a well at the heart of the inner garden. i wonder whether it starts to rain before midday. and whether the nude will yell or sing at the selfhood of things.

i ought to study the cycles and the fractions of despair between instants of rebirth. what is life? who is now at awe? on the edge? developing an Idea that fights against the strictures of words, loops, strings, spirals?... who is knocking at my confusion? Possible children jump over the blue shadows of complication and free the rhythm or logic or mystery or careless rapture...