duomo di Spilimbergo
Stone and moss are wed in the old churches
northward facing the river where the falcons
once braced talons to the wind in an explosion
of early-modern Catholicism,

the conquistadors
spread-eagle; an egg yolk
draconian mythology where
the trees once mystified
generations with their rings,

no,
I will not wed
you in this hot-house
infestation of temperamental
breed, we
Catholics know
when to hide,

not in the flickering
gestation of the lamppost
light, or the elliptical language
of the tourist guides, an ornamental
post, fork in the road, or motley
Morse code whisper

but here,
inside the stone
turrets that were
once our burning bushes.