When in Rome

I am almost not admitted:
my knees are naked, showing

until I pull and stretch my skirt
to cover up. In the cathedral

grazing crowd, I wander aimless
palms unwashed enough to not

fondle the hems of madonnas
adore the emblems of crucifixion

so instead I pay my homage
to the angels cradled above me

in an ancient celestial ceiling;
I don’t kneel but my neck cranes

to view the elegance of fingers
out-stretched to touch across

blue delirium, softness of holy
painted ages ago by skillful

partisan hands, an artisan
hired simply to serve the wily

worshippers of a harsher god
hours of eye strain and back

breaking work, as if paying off
penitence to a silent redeemer.

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