for diego rivera

there was a time when we
thought God was a factory

molten and vast
a wonderfully bolted

kind of nightmare
with sparks marking out

the edges of chaos hosts
of suspendered seraphs too—

six wings and
great bulging forearms.

(back then
we thought

everything
was a factory).

art cannot be anything but wrong
she said

so the place becomes
an archive of faiths

lovely and myopic—
she said usually

even the nihilists seem quaint
in all those big white rooms—

a museum of error
truer far

than the sum of its
parts.

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