Gubbio, the cathedral. Weeds grow around a rose window where
a pigeon huddles, a black stone. Lightbulbs shine dim as pearls in wreaths of
metal shells. Windows are painted shut with dark cloud. Francis’s arm is
raised, permanent as the whimpering metal in his lap, the wolf snout caught
forever in lockjaw submission. At the pulpit, under the bright stains, Christ’s
lacquered ribs glow.
No comments:
Post a Comment