In the sigh of frescoes
immortal eyes unhinge.
It’s you, me and the old
moving air that flees
in tasted gust to the walls
and keels in a pirouette.
Intervals are rent for the choir
when all dust is met with the roof
as they sing and they sing
or when the old tenor waddles in
combing the stair with a whistle
and cough – fends grub with love
that keeps the stone alive for years.
Simple – he comes.
And here, now, I sway
on wings I’m too small to know.
Unbent, in the blue-smocked violence,
I feather my hands.