I don’t know why, but this may be my favorite of the poems I’ve written.
Basilica di San Lorenzo
Blind stone slats lacking filament and ore, AD 300
and something, another Medici commission
gone bad, and wasn’t this the one for Great Lorenzo?
Ipods stuffed into slouched bodies, we overhear them
comfort us in our hour, hear us, o Lord; the walking
tours pass by, a reverant hush, and we obliquely follow.
Tinny earbud now a dangling white hiccup, look up
and see, page 95 in the humanities book, rendered
by the Lippis, each pius Donatello, irrelevant.