We're all like the
Lament of Christ; Giotto
couldn't even paint us this well,
he'd throw those voluminous cloaks
over our grief to mask the lantern-
of such ungraceful humanity.
There are a million ways to curb
the untidiness of it; filed neatly into
church pews and chanting the prayers from
another era of my life as I slip back into the
familiar patterns of primary school;
any minute they shall rebuke me for a dream
beneath the impassive gaze of The Virgin.
In holier circles they have sobbing statues
beading blood and tears,
but for now it is me
and an empty guardian of
bathed in stained glass halos.