born into matter (cut-up spam poem)

Glimmering of light: sound of will, then
the Lord's face will by the loud hand of time
be reversed, and you, exiled. Same sound
of bees, the loud hand of painting, always
almost honey, is trampled snow the only
keyhole? It blows a gale, then the Lord's face -
good kids playing hookey; you sought to contrive,
intending the cold work light or flakes which
have stolen onto the flagstones. Archangel Winter,
or by the reversed honey, and you - is it almost?
He is born into matter.