Attention truncated yields torture. The saints’
patience flames on the furthest continents of faith.
“That burn doesn’t seem to want to heal,”
writes Simone Weil in her journal; not far below
she notes the price for best Italian ices.
In the Sistine Chapel, the last hellmouth
glows like a room whose absent owner
left lights on as illusion to prevent all realities
that come too close. Contrary to myth,
Michelangelo did not paint on his back
with the weight of YHWH balanced
on his neck. That we are not seared
by every news report is not straightforward
wrong. The root of singe shares geniture with sing—
this hiss, involuntary, keloids and ices,
the twisted arm and the flaming ceiling.
