Michelangelo cannot catch his breath. He
says nothing to his companions.

How do you say, the dust is numberless lights that fall
in fiery trails on clothes and hair and moving
hands? How do you say I labor here as the Maker
made, in shrift, a whole that echoes in my
every strike , and bathes my face in rain?

My hands move in dreams I cannot show. Go home,
take wine. My neck lies on David’s like a brother.