Classic Poem

God or
something like that
shot
through each part of you, down
to your
small fingernail, well into
pits and wells
you
did not know of, beamed
right into all of that,
and into your
crude meanness,
and your fruitlessness; flooded
might be
the word for
it;
trans
lucence, the sun
blaz
ing through, lift
ing the most of you
out
of sight, save for
a persistence
of veins.

[From: Mirrored, Mirroring; Publisher: Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1991]