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