Enter, feigning nonchalance, the French tour
group to hear Dominum Jesum Christum
escape the newly christened sound system.
They amassed like it was 1034.
Electric candles. My eyes swept the floor,
my head hung penitent that her renown
should have reached me only through Dan Brown,
a Ser Brunetto counting his tresor.
And then the mounted canvasses I browsed
where Beatrice and Dante were espoused
with Simone de’ Bardi and Gemma Donati. On
the lectern in the doorway, a coin slot
and parallel text invited me to not
abandon every hope but leave a small donation.
