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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.

 

 

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