Why do I look skyward
as if an accumulation of deities
await my prayers?
A cherub here, an archangel there,
when I catch sight of them
they are tucked into a Sistine heaven.
It's the art of the Renaissance
that forms my point of view.
God pointing his finger at a burly Adam
catches my breath.
Useless to me are tattered bibles
tucked away in drawers,
or progressions of thou shalt not,
etched in stone.
Parade before me sumptuous seraphs,
garments edged in gold,
saints pierced by poetry,
to hold my hand
as I walk through paradise.
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