What the Structure Refuses to Hold
Upon brief examination the cathedrals of Gdansk reveal an absence of quiet death. There are at least three choices when a wall is blasted away. This is an aside. I am reminded of a crazed friend in New York who was daily mesmerized by shards of glass trapped in metal grates surrounding trees. Upon closer examination, it became clear they once were crack vials. But the cathedral— still tottering as crimson rubble, and the view of sun through glass: essential. Yet, it is simpler to brick up a dove-ghosted alcove, the wall of windows revealing rooks flapping their wings against sleep. Exhaustion results in the most mundane of remedies. Others, older men mostly, sort the saved globes of glass by shape, color, the particular Mother’s features. They die awaiting the reconstruction of their minds. Better, perhaps, to look gingerly forward, sketch a guess at the future face of the Madonna, knowing she finds her reflection abhorrent. Knowing she kisses glitter beneath pigeons and a rusted tin overhang. Go ahead. Look closer into anyone’s face.