An art book brings together
“The Last Judgement” and
“The Garden of Terrestrial Delights”.

Reality interposes
the thicknesses of many walls,
two nations,
and the Mediterranean Sea.

When the book shuts,
Bosch and Michaelangelo meet
face to face
in darkness.
Each separated
by mere molecules of air
instead of purpose,
place, and execution.

If art could ever come alive in books
and colour cross
when page caresses page
those fantasies
of veiled exploited flesh
would surely mingle.
The golden musculature
might run to blushing skin
and unsacrificed desire.

The Sistine Chapel’s roof
might turn itself into defeat –
and Popes themselves
beneath their robes
feel some confusion.

January 1990

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