Joseph P. Wood
Before Rublev Paints the Cathedral
A jester’s head is
knocked against
an oak, soldier
takes a peeling
knife, like a dead
mollusk, tongue
comes off clean.
Rublev stops
speaking mostly,
churches so torched
snow drifts down
on the altars. What
is a horse doing
thrashing the asp?
Who is that kid
building a bell
from mud, not
to be sodomized.
It tolls. Doves
flutter from belfry
to monk’s shoulder,
& the Steppe blank
canvas elsewhere.
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