They might have had it right
there in the Vatican,
procreation rules the impulse
the resistance of Florence unsaid.
But then you move against me
deep in a winter night,
arms across fortuneís sagging lines
over Michelangeloís flaunting talents.
My cramming years are spinning
dreams of waratahs draped with snow,
those supplicant fools to unholy orders
cardinalsí tendrils withered by instant melt.
A cheek dissects a shoulder
prepares the spinal cantata,
my tradesmanís hands a sculptorís leavings
a passage paid in chorus full reveals.
In the topography of our prayer ways
pilgrim sanctuary renewed,
each renascent moment glazed
designed and inscribed in this our haven.
They might have got it wrong
there in the Vatican.