He barely slept,
that night he came upon
the Saint, halo crisp and glinting,
and his circular scrap of sketch.
But Dali could not
help himself:
soon John’s bucolics were heaped
and piled, easel to easel,
peaking in words and verse from behind
the figures of his unbearable dreams.
By next month, the artist
was suspending acrobats
from the ceiling,
rope and pulley like the hand of God,
to paint the famous death.
Did Christ visit him, then,
like in that sun-drenched loft
for John?
Did he appear from above,
splayed and dreadful,
neither bronze nor bowed,
gasping blood?
Did Dali blink, turn,
drop his brush to the dusty
floor? Did he even think
to look?
Image credit: http://dali.com/14415-2/
To Marvelous Light 