WIMPLED ONE Poem by Jacob Groot

Not you or me
but they who are now
we, and especially excluded
she, by not being allowed to bare herself, from
Giotto's faces her eyes in which
split light grinds up the Asian iris below
their approaching sky of jumbos shot through

with rosy red until the arrows welt the white
back that wants to save her but lowers itself
into the sea, already nicely filling up
the caverns underneath that descent
of the breathing one on
their pavements to make the tongues

rattle against the dark without
equal when the day concludes the stations
with the deposition. A tomb I call it
nor a gift of nature leaving
Casablanca lying by the Amstel river
in the final phase. So sweetly

will has paired salvation with
the shroud on which the parade is borne, that
her marble blue goes arm
in arm with the resolute look on the way
to the expensive house. Aside I glance as much
as possible. To paint on the plaster

the same with these watercolours what
came to pass in Padua, namely that this stands
still and founds the incredible
hue that makes it fine. We gladly
henceforth together but the wimpled one
she especially, before it is
too late to see her already