Tonight, I walk out just as a bright half-moon,

outsize, appears low on the horizon

delaying darkness for a minute or two

and turning the sky the very same electric blue

that ignites the skies and ceiling of the chapel

so that the park, the ruins, the Corso Garibaldi

seem like more frescoes on an extra wall,

the streets and porticoes bustling with people,

piazza, belltower, clocktower—every eyeful

yet another frame I’ve failed to see

as if the world were an extension of the chapel.

The color won’t last but the sensation will

until I’m not sure—chapel world world chapel—

which is more compelling, brimming, real.