I. Dante Alighieri

When I dreamt of Primum Mobile,
Beatrice led me through a silver postern
to a baptismal font and sculptures
arranged about a primitive garden.
To my left, a brass replica of Earth
rested on a marble capital,
the entire length of Italy covered
by a finely molded Roman sandal.
To my right, a statue of Perseus
pointed upward with a golden scepter.
When I walked the garden, Jesus
stood before the churning water,
a cross-beam turning slowly over him,
a goat and lamb head fixed on either end.

Each head dipped below the water—
he cupped his hands to drink from it
and said, “It is evenly mixed, Father,”
as it turned to blood upon his lips.
I bowed in deference when he finished
and trembled as he came to me,
gripping the hand of Beatrice,
afraid to lift my head to watch him speak:
“Having drunk from the source, the end
arises; the thirst that came before us—
a flaw in the midst of perfection—
thirst that wells up in an empty darkness
to shape every story of the living—
it precedes us and brings the world to be.”

III. Guido Cavalcanti

They fixed your name where you were meant to be:
in Santa Croce, between the nave and living—
years before, we sheltered here in darkness,
limestone newly set toward its perfection.
You, Lapo, I—three coats against the cold—just us,
the hour before our words had found their end.
Planks shifted overhead; we held our speech.
But when I said the name of Beatrice—
you paused, half-smiled, and looked at me;
the joints were rough, the edges partly finished,
lime dried in grit like words between the teeth and lips;
no gilt or paint was needed for the Father.
We left through separate doors; her name had sealed it.
We crossed the ruts half-filled with water.

To seek the source is but to prove the end,
to bind the intellect to follow him—
who now configures wine to common water.
Reverse the parables of Jesus—
who never held a sword or scepter,
only seed and soil—no bronze of Perseus;
but dust that clings to pilgrim’s sandals:
through fields left fallow, nameless, and half-covered.
No bust imbalanced on a capital;
just questions pressing into earth—
the naves of trees; transepts of the garden;
a reliquary born of light, not sculptures
bearing symbols by a silver postern,
nor vision born of Primum Mobile.

III. Beatrice Portinari

The mixture held, settled back as water.
Thresholds could not circumscribe the garden.
Breath moved between darkness and the living.
The body, once laid down, returned to earth.
Thirst remained and gathered into darkness.
The circle closed—nothing here was finished.