after viewing the Barberini Tapestries
 

The pope’s arms are dripping with gold.

Handed down palm to kindred palm, unseen

behind a veneer (a garland of souls

worn thin) of smoke-tinted color. I mean,

what else could it obscure? Lovely rosé,

after a few drinks of bubbly the world

appears brighter or at least more holy,

even the gold the pope’s wearing, the hoard

of pirate’s booty that’s hidden then found

in light bearing the same strange light of storms:

streaming in shafts, hallelujahing down,

the heavy air precipitating sound.

Then silence (pause), which brightens even more

the gold dripping down the pope’s arms.