I gaze at the azure sky
of some Tuscan cathedral –
dissolving in the colossus of

what has been –
what leaves the eye humbled
yet irreverent.

They revive the lustre
of frescoes with spit –
I have seen them

high on the splattered scaffolding:
simulacra of the ascendance –
mirroring the flimsy bones

of Gothic arches,
that prevent the heft of heaven
from smiting us to dust

(a convincing facade).

On these walls of inscrutable stone
hell is fading, heaven too;
demons, serpents, saints

becoming anachronisms
of diminishing paint.
The arbitrary tread of tourist’s feet

rustle the timeless veil of mythology;
behind their eager, probing cameras
they do not see.