When subtleties eclipse the moon with sap
from trees made into brooms, trapped whispers roam
into the vaults of vast cathedrals, slap
right back as louder groans, the backs of domes
make booming waves of amplification.
This i learned by laying on the floor while
on Roman vacation. Less Pantheon
than pan theon, calling all gods! Erstwhile
notes left hanging, do not leave the room, float
effortlessly, unstrained, distance claiming.
Our ears, like outstretched hands to hold the note
and hear the thing completely, are ringing.
Mote of dust in diving bell, dust my brooms
indeed: it bodes well, the space in domed rooms.
– -by James S. Dwyer, July 2021
The Cuttingsville Times 