Pantheon, Rome

— Jerry Dyer

Light pours through the oculus
of the Pantheon, a waterfall,
a stream, or maybe a stylus
of God, sanctifying the hall
that the world’s turning
offers to its touch.

From below, we fill the dome
with our tongues. Whispers caress
the air, murmurs, moans,
all the tributaries of breath
merging into an endlessly
ebbing and rising tone.

Light and voices percolate
against the stones, wearing
them gently, just as our weight
wears grooves upon the stairs.
How many souls led us this way?
How many will follow in our wake?



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