We swing soft in iron as our birdcages rise on wind and wire
up the mountain. We pierce the heavy bellied sky, sun pouring on Gubbio, grubby
Gubbio, full of grace. I have learned gothic is God as architect, but I know we
got it wrong, we made it too beautiful. The dome glints over its giant wood
candles painted an unflickering red. A saint smouldering in glass and gold,
Ubaldo’s feet slant sideways in bright thread, resting on feathers.
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