Too often I spin my days
Into an airy shroud of schemes
And supposes –
Absent this world
Until something shoulders
Past me —
Heft and shape define the darkness:
Obsidian armor cuffs
A black-gloved hand,
Gold trim pleats over a soldier’s rump,
Voices flare and a blood-red coat whips
The night air.
It is all here, so present, so passing,
Like breath –
And there you are,
Pallor seizing your face.
Startled, I lurch forward with my kiss
Always good to see another Caravaggio lover. One of my favourites is the less popular “St. Catherine of Alexandria.”
Wow…us, me, you. We kissed Him with our own personal betrayals.