When the artist painted the vault of Il Gesu
_ _ he set the gold clouds on fire. Who is it
that watches from the nave, neck arched,
_ _that lights a candle for fire?
The broken stair, the ladder undone. Noah asks
_ _if we’ll meet the Magi when we die.
Freud says memory, at four, is complete,
_ _its harvest moon pale mirror full.
Moon shadow in the well, gathered,
_ _spilled, paint on the ceiling,
I try to explain what it must be to draw
_ _a thousand-foot ceiling, build a scaffold
to support your weight and lie face up,
_ _brushes in your mouth, mixing burnt umber—
some blend of linseed oil and animal—
_ _and sunlight falling on the dark wall.
Or ash, the moth we keep behind the glass
_ _in the bathroom. He wants
to open it, wants to touch its shadowy,
_ _electric blue, or set it loose
into the winter air, moth in snow
_ _that was an envelope, swathed
in sleep, leaves of gold or mud, a room
_ _fifty feet by twenty to grow a million
silkworms spinning out their threads
_ to make a shirt, a scarf, a sheet
to sleep beneath, perfect insect,
_ Imago Dei, that was a worm, bursting.