by Thomas Zimmerman

The god in red, the girl in blue, and you:
the symbolism Byzantine as if
you’re painted icons dancing on a cliff
that lifts these ancient monasteries to

a clearer view of heaven. Life is bright
in high Thessalian light: the mangy cur
that chases tourist buses smells of myrrh
and licks his fur to purer gold; the fright-

ful shelves of skulls throw glow like gaslit glass;
and you, in contemplation fierce enough
to wake the god and girl like April grass—

a trinity, a mystery, such stuff
that creeds are made of. Let our deaths amass:
they can’t withstand true art’s, pure faith’s rebuff.