.

Yes, the poet-philosopher-Dante-child walking past
the impossibility of Brunelleschi's dome, the dome
that skeptics feared could not be built. And while
on such a walking tour, somewhere beyond ego and loss,
one finds the air to be tremulous with light. There,
where the dream of creating something seemingly
beyond oneself acutally unfolds into a kind of
High Middle Ages yet-to-come-again.

And this too will become a poem that makes
words burn, if only I can escape from
the Abstract Machine long enough
to find a way out of
this blasted Inferno.