As in Assisi a tremor
shakes down this heaven
from its painted vault,
blots Giotto, scars Cimabue

As on relics we steal
through rubble, heave beams
like bodies, cup plaster shards
in white-gloved fingers

As if we’d ask any task
but this now, to scan
for pigment traces
each shattered fragment

As though we knew how
to span again that ghost arch
with its inlaid thrones, how gilt gleams
in the tweezers, how breath is built

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