There's no need for anything behind, or beyond. We can look at each individual snowflake, each individual pebble, each face, each tree. Little self-contained units of magic, or holiness? Like Neruda's garlic, or Ginsberg's grandfathers in Kansas. This is a poem that I haven't written.
A quantum of holiness would be… a hole? A microscopic hole in reality, floating across… magical beautiful window on nothingness. Yes, a poem I haven't written, that I hold in my hand like a bit of snow, that's suddenly gone.