The Very Rich Hours

these are the very rich hours of our impoverished lives

the Limbourgs knew it well when they dappled

their mangy Christ in a moonless terrestrial night

only the faint glint of a halo to relieve the darkness

it was as if - so privately consumed -

the illumination of our savior sunk inwards

only the outer shell of the man stands in that garden

our savior as seen from the inside of a closed museum

one day the paint will flake away like dead skin

until the under-drawing of the night conveys

the lighter hue of morning

bit by bit this painted event unpaints itself

using entropy as a foil to finish its story

I will die before that Christ sees dawn

but of my own dawn, shall I see it?

so much times passes through

Christ in his tomb dark garden

me in my tomb dark museum

the Limbourgs in their tombs

beyond the reach of the arms of clocks

beyond the specificity of life or art

there are hours not counted

we must reclaim

why do we leave these hours petrified

as if we ourselves are not in that garden

about to be crucified?

* Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, Christ in Gethsemane, Folio 142v