The Basilica of San Vitale (Darren and Brad/Flickr)

The old conclude

their silent prayers

and ease their slow bones

from empty pews.

We unbelievers take pictures.

Different dreamers,

aching for eternity.



We and the kneelers seek

a different deliverance.

The cold air scolds all alike.

No smoking censers,

no lit candles to memorize

the dead and our own

corroded innocence.



The worshippers look down,

stooped by the past

and unheard prayers.

We look to the dark glitter

of the mosaicked vault:

the lapis and sea-green tiles

give millions of irregularities



a coherent shape of belief.

The floor’s uneven stones

display creation’s evidence:

duck, leaf, pigeon, tree.

The homely robust glories

diminish and exaggerate

our aspirations and feeble legs.



In the moment, we share

a desire to be released

from mineral existence,

from the daily pain of it,

from pebble and shard,

to be absorbed into

what’s not yet ever here.



The ancients cross themselves,

kiss their raw, clenched knuckles,

rise and leave, like us

hostage to enchantment,

aspiration and need,

as we go our different

but not separate ways.

W. S. Di Piero’s recent books are a volume of poems, The Complaints, and Fat: New and Uncollected Prose.

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Published in the March 2023 issue: View Contents
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