III: Caravaggio Recalls Everything

Sometimes I think that dreams of yesterday
planted a manic bent within my soul,
a thirst for roots and the obscurer way
to foist me into Adam's secret role.
Cracked frescoed walls reveal the craggy face
Francesca saw. So it was thus I died.
No mourning nations gathered at the place.
Only my sons and she stood by my side.

So simple was his fall it tears my heart
and almost makes me think. . . but I was there.
Her hand upon my neck, I broke apart
the white-fleshed, seeded fruit and we lay bare
in the innocent sun. The evening brought a breeze,
a terror walked the garden, and heart's ease.

Hear how he calls.
The breeze from Pishon bears
his voice across the trees
like precious scent. I feel myself resist, reach out,
and finally relent.