La Giganta

130 The injured, pitted, pigeon-stained, diesel-exhausted granite of the gothic cathedral’s exterior soaks up the shadows, yet the pinks of granite warming early morning, the pinks in the flower bed, the pinks of the wings of her illusion, and the pinks of the dead pigeon in the plaza of triumph blush. After all, our lady doesn’t live far from the little corner of art. Professor of faith, she is not troubled to stand on a symbol of the world. If she let down her hair, could you stand the apocalypse? Her copy exists in her evening shadow where her favorite couplet is oranges/horses. Keys, castles, gates, and eagles have become her decorations, and her shins are made of lions. Broken-faced griffins strain to howl water, and sculptors have chiseled many fires from stone, but try carrying a bronze sash forever. Blind as the ecstasy of eye shadow, she is another name for weather. She suffers for a look, timeless, something rising to meet her in a ribbon spiraling, something like men desperate to see a city from a tower and live. You know who to call if your plow runs into a Roman column or if you need a human flame for a minaret. You know a breastplate of righteousness when you see it. She is all-noun and pro-verb above her bells above the name of God. LA GIGANTA JOHN POCH ...