Fired Clay, Ardent Metal
The Russian dome looms up in blue and gold,
The sacred onion shape in gold and blue,
A Golden Section shape with thoughts as old
As God perhaps or Archimedes’ true
Reflections, dome with tiles more blue than skies
Of Greece in August, dome with golden stars
More bright in sunlight than the saintly eyes
On icons and a cross—that bears no scars—
Held high in gold above the sapphire peak,
A shape with two diagonals across
The bornite sky, gold slashes there oblique
bornite
Against the Heaven that deploys loss
As ultimate rejection of the wrong.
It is Christ’s melody, a concrete song.