Beginning with gold around the edges
and ending with the eyes' sorrowful gaze,
the face of a Madonna with child
makes a dark mirror of what you are to feel:
the temporary but desperate way
a part of you is wounded
until the hurt becomes a lens. Inside you is a city
the mosaic spells out with tiny precious stones
across the ceiling and the walls.
And the city has its currency: every tessera is a coin
you must struggle to spend by looking,
the way rain slowly covers every cobblestone on a street.
A camera won't work: the tourists' feeble flashes
cannot ascend high enough, cannot take in
the Madonna's head tilted in thought,
the baby happy and silent like a secret.