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.
The Pope’s Arms Are Dripping with Gold
1 August 2012