It wasn’t history that led me

            To the church that afternoon

            But heat, the promise of a 

            Refuge from the weary chaos

            Of Italian beaches and the 

            Flesh of cooling curiosity

            The large resplendent figures

            With their scowls and predatory gloom

            Had drawn my gaze

            Until a guide burst in

            With entourage in tow

            I couldn’t help but overhear –

            At first about the principles of restoration

            (An interesting coincidence)

            And then about the tesserae, 

            Their facets, sizes, composition –

            Marble, stone, ceramic, glass,

            Gold leaf, mother of pearl –

            How their fixture in the bedding mortar

            Was designed to use the shifting light

            For infinite effect

            I mused about the nameless artisans

            Who cut and painted, shaped and set

            With such precision every fragment

            In the service of idolatry

            A child cried out and 

            Tugged a parent’s arm,

            The tourists left

            And once again I was alone

            This time I couldn’t see beyond the bits,

            The million glittering mosaic elements,

            So carefully arranged, 

            The fractionated brilliance of the parts

            That made a mockery of the whole

            And what I fled

            Became –

            Exactly how who knows –

            A little more forgivable