from “The Virgin Annunciate by Antonello da Messina”
This time only one hand startles,
Losing her place in the book of hours.
The other goes on worrying the light
Habit of modesty worn to protect the angels.
Will it be the image bound to emerge from this blur of words
Shuddering through her? A full moon of the language of rising up
And coming down, building up and tearing down, swelling until
Everything she sees echoes with its own formation and demise….