Robin Wyatt Dunn writes

not the piece where you were right
and not the light inside
not which or were
and not the truth
not the burden of the ruth

the sound of the epiphany
with its rustling robes
shaking round the ceiling's dome
metal shaking out its cloak

a small signal down into my neck
clicking slow into the lock against the flint
whose spark
bilious green
floods the marsh