In the Picture: Donatello and Brunelleschi

Fratelli under the high dome of Heaven, they are urgent in their desire to let their hands be magical as running water. Alert to God's Will, they would like to make the invisible, visible; no less than to feel beneath them the earth, they will chase a full purse to cut a lean time. You might say, at all times they desire to be, in the picture. Between them, such ardent bonds of declaration, you can see they have a lovers' quarrel with the sublime. And of course they try each other's art, lining up at the head of the queue: one to the other one day, looking up under a crown of light, 'You have placed a boor upon the Cross.' To which his friend replies, snapping his fingers, 'Take wood then, and make One yourself.' And he did that— Santa Maria Novella. And not far from here another dream of visibility, framed in goldleaf: if you look carefully, among the estimable ones, in the picture we see: Donatello, Masolino, Antonio Brancacci, Nicolo da Uzzano, Giovanni di Bicci de'Medici, Bartolemmo Valori, we see

     Brunelleschi
Brunelleschi
       'Brunelleschi
   in his
          wooden
     shoes'

– 133 –

'Cucumbers and Mad Apples'

   Let us peel with our hands cucumbers and mad
apples you write, planning to live forever inside
the unshakeable nature of your dreams. In the
lockup cupboard you will find: item 1 pair shoe-
laces, 1 belt (black), item 1 toy whistle, no
sound, item various monies, currency unknown,
1 address book, item one green-stone, polished
by generations of women. Tumbling batlike and
quick into your room lampblack with shadow, the
light is wrapping up your body. Already, there
is heavy traffic in the dark. When a glass falls
on the stone floor, you don't hear a sound. You
declare that we live in a time of 'too many words
without wings', that magic is a great hidden
wisdom; failing that, with reason we may live out
the nightmare at both poles of the world. I can
see why there are shivers in your wrists; why
you shout for unaccountable life in things them-
selves, the running-water-hemline of your skirt
a songline of sorrows. It is only before sleep
I hear rising under your tongue, a small sound,
item unknown; speechbearer of the dark you would
make luminous, I believe you when you say that
you would like to appear, and right now, as a
constellation sailing in a southern sky.