Reading Saint John of the Cross

How many miles to the border where all the sky there is exists for the soul alone? Where the only breathers breathing are constructed from some new electricity and the flowers are made indestructible, and messages from the dead arrive like calm white birds with a gift? One more night of spiritual ice and we might all become birds, green birds frozen on a black winter branch. There is a drumming in the shadows under leaves: a million eight-eyed spiders on the march. The buckeyes beat themselves half to death against some lit-from-within screen.