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
