...talking to myself again, through you (& vice versa).


As he brushed in the crown of the steep-
combed hills' rust-green, Lorenzetti
must have felt like those travelers he
scribbled across them (ready for sleep

in his own bed, finally). And when Martini
(daubing patriarchs, bordering the Virgin
Maesta) scrolled a miniature stern
warning for all subtle, muffled mutiny -

malevolence against the commonweal -
there in Palazzo Pubblico (Sala
del Mappamondo
) - he spoke through Maria
herself (like an infant Word through the royal

She). Pure color glows like a proverb;
the gesture represents what's bent
too shy for speech (abiding, swelling up
sometimes). Angels lift bowls of herbs

and flowers toward them, under their canopy
of red and white, of royal blue. The sky
is midnight. A mirror of the old country
glimmers (signing) in your old unhappy

heart. The sun shines there, also -
intermittently. Your heart's a mappemunde
(scan it and weep). Where the sea resounds;
where your hand reiterates a silvered blue.

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