Ian Finch

Annunciation

the spine is cloth
embossed with Fra Angelico

inside, a fresco of the girl
only halfway into her book

her place held with a finger
a look that might be worry

bothered by the patient boy
the wing’s vague fermatas

he stands in her light
looks surprisingly like her

through the golden spokes
there isn’t a word

so intimate the cracks
in the wall can touch a person