I would like to live long enough
to see the last stone in Gaudi's basilica set.
The orifices in the high ceilings carrying
the songs and psalms of its congregation
into the dark and then out into the sky
to dissipate above Barcelona's rooftops
like dust, like ash from shattered volcanoes,
settle on top of the heads of the unaware.
That I could walk through the great space,
careful not to stumble over the details
of creation grown wild, a deep forest,
how laughter and weeping follow stories,
their inflections and pauses, the ache
of not understanding, the blow of discovery.
I have never been to Spain, I have
never seen a bull die by the sword,
a matador gored, poets shot dead,
nor a swimming pool in the shape of a penis.
But in Nueva York there is a Cathedral being built
atop a hill gazing south to the sea
and though I've been there, more than once,
feeling smaller each time, I'll never see it done,
of that I'm sure, even as gargoyles sprout,
the north tower a dream, its twin in scaffolds,
the men and women in vestments having said
it will never be done, as God will have His say.