And when they were come to the place, which is
called Calvary, there they crucified him. —Luke 23:33
Diffuse light, no real season.
Soldiers everywhere, an occupying army.
A leveling goes on, a minutely figural confusion.
The central figure’s lost in the crowd, down,
hard to make out.
The procession leads to the future, how tiny it is,
there, on the empire’s edge, the scale
of a flea circus, Golgotha’s mound
beyond which there is no news at all.
the sky a local, venous blue above people
who might cry out
or wander off, who want to see how things end.
The heart sees things where none are, Franciscan loaves,
a fountain. Illusionistic space
contains wilds. Near Mary
a species of lily blooms, speaks
of earth’s caritas.
There are depths the painter sounded,
pleas the paint absorbed.
I hardly know where to look in the actual world.