Limp as unwatered flowers, the grey limbs
And academic heads of vanquished caryatides
Droop from the illusory ledge, casting
Satisfying shadows on the ovolo, the astragal,
The egg-and-dart. This round tribune supports,
As well, a whole encyclopaedia of engines
And machineries devised to pull down
The dome on top of us. Some of the pulleys
Already are in place, ropes taut, the frescoed
Laborers straining at the winches.
A crack’s perceptible across
The cloud on which a god’s superior anatomy
Reposes. He smiles, not oblivious
But as though from the first stroke
Of his natal brush he’s been aware that
He, his pantheon, the cloud, the crack, and all this
Foreshortened, revolutionary crew were nothing
But paint and plaster, ingenious and untrue.
God of this ceiling, let us worship you!
Homage to the Carracci
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