The limestone angel was Michael

the one on the sepulcher

and there also under glass
(robbed of foot, almost faceless)

and through each figment of love
or hate which was carried: illuminated,

washed out by each dark corner
you likened to lust

he is that creature in the tapestry
a woman at war,
the one with the chain-mail

and spear straight as divinity
eyes not seeing who crawls

underneath, who passes from
heart to stone: not the one who fell,

not the acacias through
the walled cloister, nor I,

dreaming visitor.



Photo by: Sharon Mollerus

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