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,  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.