[...]

Death is not
in not being able to communicate
but in no longer being able to be understood.
And this papal monster, not devoid
of grace—reminder of
the rustic condescensions of patronage,
which were innocent, in the end, as the serfs’
submissiveness was innocent—
in the sun that was,
through the centuries,
for thousands of afternoons,
here, the only guest,
this papal monster, crenelated,
crouched among poplar groves and marshes,
fields of watermelons, embankments,
this papal monster, armored
by buttresses the sweet orange color
of Rome, cracking
Like Etruscan or Roman buildings,
is at the point of no longer being understood.

[...]

Joseph Geagan, Liza Doolay, 2017
Subscribe to Lacanian Ink click here.