The commerce of miracles
(after Carpaccia)
in the Quattrocento there is a space
reserved for each of us, a little corner of the canvas,
a square inch or two, in which we can be ourselves.
Each of us - flesh, fish or fowl - can move
in the aura of our own grave confidence,
among rose, emerald and white marble,
our gravity finely honed so as not to disturb our hat;
that fine turban, worthy of an Emperor or Prince,
threatens to overbalance us
but cannot quite tip us from our sturdy warhorse.
The hero is a bronze vessel
streaming verdigris and pigeon shit,
exhaling the heat of a long afternoon
in an empty summer piazza.
We stroll down the arcades that surround the square,
in dignified conversation, displaying fine thighs in
silk stockings
discussing Plato and Seneca, my lord’s finances
or his daughter’s neck, his son’s nasal singing.
We walk as the arches walk, graceful yet rooted
to the ground,
inscribing our paces on the city and the sky.
Around us the sacred stories are told and retold
like coins passed from hand to calloused hand.
Saint Ursula takes leave of her father,
Saint George defeats the dragon.
The commerce of miracles is transacted
in the market place, along with the sale of fruit.
The saints’ impassive faces are screens
that display our feelings as we gaze at them -
sadness, horror, strength and pity
pass like clouds across the moon.
In the Quattrocento we live in civic bliss.
The poor are with us only as beggars,
fobbed off with alms or a gory martyrdom or two.
But here the frame circumscribes us
like a city wall.
We circle the city in our bubble of space
but we cannot escape;
nor can the birds who beat at the corners
like those trapped inside a room,
dashing themselves against unrelenting glass.
Page(s) 42-43
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